


Against All Odds

by Terahlyanwe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Dumbledore Bashing, F/F, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, M/M, Minerva is a badass, Misguided Dumbledore, Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter Friendship, Senile Dumbledore, Sirius isn't a dumbass, Trans Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terahlyanwe/pseuds/Terahlyanwe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With one shot at getting a family, Harry was not about to bow meekly to Albus's orders which would destroy his chance forever, and so he flees Britain, cradling a baby under his heart. With this one act of defiance, years of plots, lies, and mistakes made by Headmaster Dumbledore begin to unravel and fall apart, and Harry begins to discover who he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wherein We See Definitively That Albus Dumbledore Is Not Infallible, And Indeed, Has Overreached Himself

Headmaster Dumbledore sat across from a fidgety, but defiant Trelawney in an upper room in the Hog's Head Inn. He flicked open her dossier and made a show of examining it again.

"Madame," he reiterated, "you have no practical skills, no accreditation, and no verified true prophecies." Sibyll opened her mouth, doubtless to go over her inane "Inner Eye" excuse again, before suddenly going utterly stiff, eyes rolling back in her head. Dumbledore rolled his own eyes.

"Madame, you are hardly going to sway me by making a false prophe…" he trailed off as a haze sprung up around her and a small, clear glass ball appeared in front of her in the mist. The Ministry had a nation-wide spell in place that detected outbreaks of true prophecy and sent a memory globe to record it. This was the real thing. Albus leaned forward, enthralled.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..."

Sibyll gasped and fell forward, nearly pitching headfirst off her settee. She picked herself up, seemingly unaware of what had just occurred.

"I shan't stand for being insulted any longer." she declared. "I saw as I gazed into my crystal ball this morn that you would be intractable and an unbeliever."

Albus smiled benignly, mind racing with the need to keep this prophetess close at hand.

"Actually, Madame Trelawny, I would like to offer you the Divination Professor position at Hogwarts…"

 

* * *

 

Albus felt like dancing, punching the air, celebrating. He finally had an edge over Voldemort. He knew it wasn't his own destiny to defeat the Dark Lord; he had done his fated duty with his defeat of his ex-loved, the brilliant, mad, Grindelwald, who he still mourned…

No, the fates would not ask it of him to end yet another unlucky soul, only led to delusions of power and grandeur by the cruel vagaries of life. It could not, would not be, his responsibility. He had known that it was his duty to guard the wizarding world until the hero arose. And yet…he sincerely hoped that the vague prophecy referred to a child already born. The phrasing could indicate any boy child born in late July whose parents had opposed Voldemort three times.

However, he had a sinking feeling that the child would be Lily or Alice's offspring; both were due in late July. Albus called Fawkes to his side and attached a duplicating paper to his familiar's leg.

"Deliver this to the Order." he requested, petting the brilliant gold and red plumage. Fawkes trilled in acquiescence and disappeared in a burst of flame.

All over Britain, weary and frightened, brave souls were finding a paper drifting down over their heads in a puff of flame. Their hearts each lightened, in turn, as they read instructions for a new meeting of the Order, two weeks hence.

 

* * *

 

"So…we're watching for the fulfilment of a prophecy, the details of which you won't tell us, but we still need to alert you if we think it's being fulfilled. Does that about summarise it?" Fabian Prewett had a sceptical eyebrow raised as he addressed Dumbledore, who, being in the beginning stages of mental breakdown as he was really a very old man, completely failed to grasp the sarcasm.

"Precisely, Fabian." he agreed, nodding benevolently. Fabian eyed Gideon, who shrugged fatalistically.

The Order made mental note of their new instructions, and fidgeted in their chairs, each wanting to be home with their families so they could see them, and know they were safe.

"James….Frank," Dumbledore went on, "I believe you should be more careful than usual with your wives' safety. I have a tip that suggests that Voldemort may be coming after your families. James's lips were flat and his face was drawn.

"Your new pet Death Eater spy?" he asked, referring to Dumbledore's announcement at the last meeting that Severus Snape was now spying for the Order. James had been most displeased to discover that he had turned to Dumbledore to protect Lily, when the snivelling coward had been the one to put in her danger in the first Merlin-damned place. Dumbledore frowned disapprovingly at James.

"You know that Severus puts his life on the line every day to bring us information." he scolded gently. James, not cowed at all, ignored Dumbledore and put Snape out of his head.

"What other measures should we take? I've had the strongest wards available put on the house…" Frank seconded him. Dumbledore twinkled benignly down at the two.

"I've recently come into possession of a book that has instructions for the Fidelius Ward…" he trailed off, and watched everyone's eyes light up.

 

* * *

 

James grinned through his sweat and grime at Lily, who stood under the front stoop of their Godric's Hollow home, protected from the flying rain.

"It's up!" he shouted happily. "Hah, Voldemort! You won't find us now, will you?" he laughed again, and twirled in a circle. Lily giggled on the porch.

"Come inside and help me unpack, dear." she requested, motioning towards their boxes of possessions that lined the hall. The Fidelius unfortunately interfered with the Potter's ancestral home's wards, and had to be cast separately. James had surreptitiously purchased Godric's Hollow from a distant cousin to use for their safehouse during the war upon hearing about the Fidelius's requirements.

James darted across the yard and bounded up the stairs to face Lily. She flicked a series of quick charms at him, cleaning, drying, and warming him, and he took her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly, one hand caressing her very-pregnant stomach.

"What're we going to name her?" he asked. Lily smiled.

"Him."

James laughed. "Her! And she'll be redheaded and gorgeous just like her amazing Mum." Lily melted against and cuddled into James's shoulder happily.

"Are we going to go for ancient and dignified, or a bit more modern like your name?" she asked, slipping her fingertips into his and drawing him into the house to collapse on the sofa.

"Modern?" James more asked than said. "I really like the name Kyleigh, but I don't like the 'K' part of it.

"Ayleigh, then?" Lily suggested. James hummed happily in acquiescence.

"And for your theoretical son?" he asked. "Let's not name it after me. The Junior trope is just so tacky." he declared.

"Perseus? Demetrius? Draconius? Orion?" Lily suggested, giggling madly as James growled with each suggestion.

"Hank? Mike? Peter? Caleb?" retorted James, tickling Lily gently who gasped and doubled over, accidentally knocking James in the head.

"Lils? Are you all right?" James demanded, bounding to his feet. Lily raised a very pale face to meet James's worried eyes.

"Think I've just gone into labour." she said slowly, gripping her abdomen and wrinkling her nose with pain. A moment later, she released a long breath as the contraction stopped and reached up for James's hand and hauled herself to her feet.

"Shall I call Healer Janice and ask her to come here?" James asked worried, then swore vociferously under his breath. "We haven't given her the secret yet! Peter!" he bellowed into the fireplace, barely managing to throw a handful of floo powder in before he stuck his head over the hearth. Lily made her way slowly up the stairs as her scatterbrained husband shouted orders to their Secret Keeper to fetch the Healer for them. Despite her concern at not being able to deliver in a hospital—for safety concerns—she still laughed softly to herself at James's inability to keep a clear head when confronted with one, single, solitary contraction.

 

* * *

 

Six hours later, the evening of July 31st, 1980, a tiny, wrinkled, green-eyed Ayleigh Potter took her first squalling breath and wrapped her dad around her little finger with the same action. Janice left the birth certificate with them; with all the unrest making it unsafe for any knowledge of really, any kind to become commonly known, the Ministry was accepting birth and wedding registries up to two years after the events actually took place.

The Healer smiled at the family as she showed herself out the door: James was curled up around Lily's petite form, and both were cooing at the tiny baby girl they jointly held in their intertwined arms.

"Told you it would be a girl." James said smugly.

"Prat." Lily retorted with a tired laugh, leaned against James's shoulder, and yawned in unison with their newborn.

 

* * *

 

Dumbledore was twinkling benignly down at the little Potter girl as she just barely managed to totter from the couch to James's arms. He supressed a sigh at the knowledge that Ayleigh was clearly not the Child of Prophecy, since the prophecy clearly said he, and she was just as obviously not a he. Not that Dumbledore wanted someone in specific to be the Chosen One, but Neville Longbottom…that just really wasn't the name of a hero.

The Leader of the Light, The Last Bastion of Defence Against The Forces Evil, stood up and resolved to go over the prophecy again: perhaps it did refer to an older child after all. Wasn't one of the Weasley boys born in July? Percy, perhaps?

Lily swept into the room and tickled Ayleigh who shrieked with laughter. Dumbledore winced and surreptitiously cast a sound-dampening charm over his ears. Lily turned to face him, holding the giggling Ayleigh on her hip.

"Thanks for watching her while I put the pot roast in the oven." she said, "Are you certain you can't stay for lunch" Albus shook his head as the floo glowed green and James stepped through, tripped over a pumpkin placed there as a Hallowe'en decoration, and stopped to shake ashes off his head. He paused, mid-shake when he noticed Dumbledore sitting on his sofa, looking less than dignified with baby drool on the end of his beard, and pink play-dough handprints on his lime green robes.

"Albus!" he greeted the old man, "didn't realise you were here. Say, when can we announce Ayleigh's birth?" he asked. "We've kept mum as to her being a girl –even hinted she was a boy, like you told us to—but it would be nice to update our wills to include her, set up her Hogwarts trust fund, and enter her into the Potter family legally." Lily jumped as a timer from the kitchen sounded and deposited Ayleigh onto the floor before flying off to the kitchen. Albus looked regretful.

"I'm afraid I don't know yet." he told them, "And your forbearance is greatly appreciated." James made a bit of a face and fortified himself with a deep breath.

"Is this about the prophecy?" he asked, "I'm it relates to either the Longbottoms or us, from the hints you've dropped, but how does keeping Ayleigh and Neville's genders a secret, but hinting they're both boys, further the prophecy? I insist you tell us the prophecy so that we can use our own judgement."

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Albus's eyes were not twinkling, but were stony and resolute.

"Merlin, stop playing your cards so close to the chest!" James growled at him. "If you shared half the information at which you hint with the aurors, this war might have been over by now! Why do you insist that the Order goes it alone? People are dying every day!" he gesticulated wildly as punctuation to his statement.

Albus looked pensive, and sad. "Perhaps you're right." he mused. "I'll share the prophecy with your family and the Longbottoms at the next Order meeting, then." he promised. James softened immediately.

"Thank you, Headmaster." he said, clearly a bit relieved. Albus regained his lost equanimity and stood, the picture of geniality.

"Not at all, m'boy." he assured James. "Now, I really must be going…" Lily appeared back in the door with flour smudges on her face and raised an eyebrow at her husband.

"Tell you later." he mouthed to her. Albus made his farewells to James and Lily and wandered out the front door, absently nibbling on a bit of his beard by accident as he popped a lemon drop in his mouth. James watched him go with an eyebrow raised, and mused that Albus must have never taken a Divination class, if his insistence on the Longbottoms and Potters spreading rumours that both of their children were boys, instead of only one being male. It was well known to anyone who passed their Divination O.W.L. that pronouns were always gender neutral in true Prophecies. It was circumstances that pushed people into fulfilling fate, not their genitalia.

"Is it just me, or is the Headmaster really slipping mentally?" he asked his wife who swatted him, laughingly, then flopped on the couch.

"He's the leader of the light! Most of his eccentricities are probably affectations to throw the opposition." she said, quite sure in her belief in the Headmaster. James, far more sceptical, raised an eyebrow but didn't argue with his wife. However, internally James made up his mind, and it wasn’t to continue following the Headmaster blindly. Potters were always independent, and just because his father had died when he was relatively young was no reason to cling to the words of his old school Headmaster.

James swiped Ayleigh off the floor, where she had been sampling the carpet fringe, and held her on his hip, twirling his wand absently in his other hand, but turned slightly so Lily couldn't see what he was doing. He cooed at Ayleigh to disguise his mumbling under his breath, and quietly cast a spell he'd learned from his father to painlessly collect a bit of blood from his heir, then froze it into a globule and slipped it into his pocket. He smiled at Ayleigh and tweaked her nose, and then transferred the toddler to Lily's care.

"I'm going to walk the ward line and reinforce the stones." he announced. Lily nodded slowly. The Fidelius was supposedly infallible, but more power in the wards couldn't possibly hurt.

"Would you make supper tonight?" Lily asked, "I want to take a nap with Ayleigh this afternoon, since I'll need all my energy for when we have three big babies running around tonight." she explained, referencing the fact that Sirius and Peter were coming over for supper that evening. James smiled.

"Certainly, love." he agreed, and kissed Lily and Ayleigh before tromping out the door and headed for the edge of the yard. Lily tweaked her daughter's nose and headed up the stairs, yawning.

James walked the yard till he was sure that Lily and Ayleigh would be asleep, then walked outside the ward line and apparated to Gringotts. He had a bad feeling about today. Hallowe'en was celebrated mainly as a holiday in recent years, but he knew that it carried great significance for the more superstitious dark magic users, and most were very superstitious. He wanted to write up his will and make sure Lily and Ayleigh were protected before anything could happen to him.

 

* * *

 

James signed off for what felt like the eightieth time on the paperwork that the goblins just. Kept. Shoving. At. Him.

He had written a will designating Lily as the recipient of the entire Potter estate, and if she were dead, then Ayleigh would inherit automatically as the sole living Potter heir. That had necessitated him to convince the goblins that Ayleigh both existed, and was legally and naturally his daughter.

It had taken shenanigans, bribes, and threats to get the goblins to accept Ayleigh as the Potter heir. He had brought her birth certificate, but since it hadn't been registered with the Ministry yet they were hesitant to accept it. When he had unfrozen the small blob of Ayleigh's blood for them to key her into all the Potter vaults, instead of solely the heir vaults as was traditional, he had momentarily thought that they would revolt.

"This gives her full head of house control over the vaults from now on." Blodrug grumbled at him unhappily. James smiled a completely humourless smile back at the goblin, knowing that his displeasure was due to the caretaking clause in the Potter contract with the bank. If the heir were the only living Potter, they could claim a much higher yearly fee, as they would then be the heir's financial guardians. If the heir were keyed into the vaults before their seventeenth birthday, then the goblins were only able to carry on with the previous Potter Head's financial instructions unless contradicted by the heir.

He requested another sheet of parchment and wrote out the financial instructions which he wished for them to follow in case of his death. He finished jotting out orders for them to continue managing his investments to the best of their judgement, under the caveat that they never withdraw more than twenty percent of the current total Potter assets for buying shares or investing.

He smiled again at Blodrug who was looking increasingly displeased. James suspected that he had been looking forward to spending the entire Potter fortune on risky investments just for the pleasure of ruining a wizard's life. Most of the older goblins absolutely hated humans, with the younger ones being more willing to negotiate and deal with wizards and the ministry. Blodrug was the oldest goblin of which James was aware, and the goblin's vitriol for wizarding kind was deep and enduring.

"Very good to do business with you." James said genially as he completed jotting his final requests on the will. Under guardianship he listed Sirius as her godfather, Alice Longbottom as her godmother, and jotted down half of the Hogwarts professors as people with whom Ayleigh could be placed. He pointedly did not include Dumbledore, and included a clause stating that Albus was absolutely not to be regarded as Ayleigh's magical guardian under any circumstances, as well as declaring that Ayleigh was never to be left in Petunia Dursley’s care. (His memories of the awful woman still made him shudder, especially during their one visit to her just after her son ¨Dudley¨’s birth). 

Jame hesitated a long moment before putting quill to parchment once more, and wrote a letter to Ayleigh, which he folded into the will and sealed with gold wax mixed with a drop of his blood. 

These caveats and last minute inclusions had Blodrug looking curious despite himself. The goblin stood when James rose to leave and spat onto the table in front of the wizard. James refrained from rolling his eyes at the mild insult.

"May your gold run freely." he said politely, and ignored the goblin's lack of farewell as the doors slid open for his exit.

James hastened outside the bank and apparated home quickly; the appointment had taken longer than he had suspected it would, and he wanted to get back before Lily woke up and started asking questions.

For the millionth time, James grumbled under his breath, annoyed at his wife's devotion to Albus. It was almost like the man brainwashed the muggleborn students. He couldn't think of any other reason why every single one always worshipped the man like the second coming of Merlin.

 

* * *

 

"This is really a very unseasonably cold autumn." Peter complained, still wearing his sweater over his muggle t-shirt even a half an hour after arriving at the Potters' residence. He was trailing a tiny, animated hippogriff around on a string from where he sat; Ayleigh chased it on the floor, giggling madly, and squealing with delight whenever she caught it. Sirius was sprawled on the couch in a tank-top with a glass of wine in one hand, and a heavily glamoured book in the other. Lily came down the stairs, retying the waist of her wrap-around skirt as she came, and gave Sirius a dirty look.

"No reading porn in front of Ayleigh." she scolded. Sirius looked offended.

"It's actually a…um…quidditch book?" he offered, but wilted in the face of the redhead's displeasure and slipped the volume into the breast pocket of his jacket. "Where's James?" he abruptly changed the subject.

"In the kitchen." Lily responded, "He's making supper tonight." Sirius cackled.

"Whipped!" he hooted. If Lily's previous look had been dissuading in its disapproval, the look she shot Sirius at this statement was scathing death. She stalked over to the couch.

"We've had the women's liberation talk, Sirius." she said in a soft voice that chilled Sirius to his bones. "I wonder what talk you need as a followup?" He blanched.

"Just joking, Lils." she patted his cheek and turned her smile onto Peter.

"Hullo, Peter." she greeted him. He raised a hand in salutation.

"Thanks for having us." he responded, trotting the hippogriff toy in a figure eight. Ayleigh sat down and stared, wide-eyed, at the manoeuvre.

"Hip'griff doan dooo that!" she protested. Peter laughed.

"What do they do then, kitten?" he asked her. She blinked up at his solemnly.

"Dey run straight! Or fly!" she insisted. Lily giggled at her daughter and scooped her and kissed her, ignoring Ayleigh's wriggling as she attempted to get back to the floor and her "hip'griff" chasing.

James emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel and grinned at the scene in his living room.

"Good to see you guys!" he exclaimed. "Nice to see that you've made yourselves at home," he nodded towards the glass of wine that Sirius was sipping from with a pleased expression on his face. "Do you approve of the vintage?" he asked, amused. Sirius made a huge show of rolling the wine around in his mouth and sniffing the contents of his glass.

"Acceptable for a Rouge Cote du Rhône." he pronounced, winking outrageously at Lily. James brightened.

"That's perfect for what I've cooked." he declared. "Bring the whole bottle into the dining room, will you? I'm just about to put supper on the table." Sirius bounded up, and followed James into the kitchen, bottle in hand. He pulled the door shut behind them and leaned against the counter where James was arranging lettuce and lemon slices around a platter of salmon.

"Say, James," he started, "I'd appreciate it if you'd talk to Lily…" he trailed off as James raised an eyebrow at the statement. Sirius faltered slightly, but went on.

"Lils is great, just great," he insisted, "but it's so tiresome when she's always dragging muggle politics into things. It's cool you can cook, but that's her job; she's the wife. And insisting you get home early all the time to take your "turn" taking care of Ayleigh?" he broke off suddenly as James rounded on him with a bit of viciousness.

"You really are happily ignorant, aren't you?" James asked rhetorically. "Neither of us are working right now, so yeah, I'm going to cook and take care of Ayleigh in equal measures as Lily. Even if I was working, I'd still be helping out. It's damn hard taking care of a baby; more than a full time job by itself. Household spells are harder than the N.E.W.T.s, I swear. Muggles do have it right when it comes to expecting both parents to be equal. Get that through your skull." he finished by thumping Sirius in the forehead, who scowled.

"She's changed you," he complained, and James actually growled.

"Lily is the best thing that ever happened to me!" Sirius looked sullen.

"We had so much fun in school," he said, "but you got so boring in fifth year. Insisting that we stop most of our pranks, and spending half your time studying…" James rolled his eyes.

"We were bullies." he said frankly. "Most of our pranks were cruel, and awful. What you did to Severus was absolutely unforgiveable. Yeah, he's a snot, and a coward, and was way too into the Dark Arts even back then, but using Remus to almost get him bit? You should have been expelled for that. Lily made me realise how awful of a person I was, hiding behind the Gryffindor flag to claim the higher moral ground. I changed because she inspired me to be a better person, and I'm just thankful she gave me another chance after five years of driving her batty with my shenanigans."

Sirius looked vaguely thoughtful and petulant in equal measures. James clapped him on the shoulder.

"Sirius. Think about it." Then he smiled, and pulled Sirius into a hug. "C'mon," he said, "I'll teach you the charm that sets the table. It's damn hard." Sirius pulled out his wand agreeably.

"Only if you let me put up some decorations." he said, Transfiguring the curtains into cobwebs, complete with spiders. "It's practically a crime that we can't do anything for Hallowe'en today, but really, no decorations?" James grinned at Sirius and pulled out his own wand.

"Why I think you're right." he agreed. "Bet I can charm more bats than you." Sirirus laughed.

"You're on!"

 

* * *

 

"Lily…" James started hesitantly, a few minutes after waving farewell to Peter and Sirius as they disappeared into the gloomy night. Lily turned to him, a smile playing on her lips.

"Hmmm?" she questioned, heading for the kitchen via the living room, cleaning up Ayleigh's toys as she went. James followed her, levitating puzzle pieces back into their correct boxes and stuffed animals onto the shelves where they propped up advanced charms books, and volumes on theoretical potions reactions.

"Did you notice that Peter never took off his sweater all night?" Lily stopped and turned to him, a bit of a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Mm, that's right." she agreed. "He complained that it was cold, and then never took it off, despite the fact that Sirius asked us to damp the fire because he was too hot in his tank top. Perhaps Peter is getting sick." James was absolutely sober.

"I don't think that was it, Lils." he told her. Lily raised an eyebrow at him, so he took a deep, shuddery breath and perched on the edge of the sofa arm to explain.

"He came into the dining room as Sirius and I were setting the table, and I asked him to hand me the candles. When he stretched across the table to hand them to me, his left sleeve rode up and I saw black ink on his arm. I acted like I hadn't even glanced at his arm, and he didn't seem to notice that his sleeves were short enough to ride up like that, but…" he trailed off. Lily had turned stark white.

"He has been acting more oddly than usual lately, but James! Do you honestly think…?" James nodded, lips pressed together in a thin, pale line. Lily abruptly flushed from totally white to an angry red.

"I'm going to kill him!" she swore in low voice, looking as though she'd rather be shouting. "Then," she went on," I'm going to build a dungeon under the house, resurrect him, and spend the next few decades killing him all over again!" Despite himself James chuckled a little.

"Why don't we double cross him instead?" Lily instantly looked intrigued.

"Would it end with his painful death?" she inquired. James grinned.

"Absolutely."

"I'm all ears." Lily sat on the arm of the chair across from him and leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand.

"We'll assume that Peter will eventually cave and tell Voldemort where we live. I'm still not sure why he's apparently so after us, but I assume it has to do with this damn prophecy Dumbledore's negligently refusing to tell us. Lily!" he half shouted, as his wife looked about to jump into a recital of Dumbledore's praises, "I know he's the leader of the light, and rid the world of Grindelwald, but he's ancient, and I think he's starting to slip mentally a bit. At the least he has way too much on his plate; three full time jobs, really? Plus leading the Order? I think he's gotten so used to being able to orchestrate everything that he's forgotten that we're intelligent people, and not just chess pieces." Lily frowned, but was clearly pondering this. James pressed his advantage while he had it.

"If there's a prophecy about Ayleigh, don't you want to know it? We can't protect her if we don't know what Voldemort wants with us, can we?" That sold the fiery, protective Lily. She nodded.

"That's true." she said, "and I am confident in my abilities to make good choices. Dumbledore rather has been treating us like children all this time, hasn't he? Even the older members of the Order, like the Prewett brothers." James looked utterly relieved at his wife's acquiescence, leaned forward, and squeezed her hand in gratitude. "OK, what's your plan?" she asked him.

"I think we should start warding off Ayleigh's room." he told her. "I know that no one would look for a fidelius warded room inside of a fidelius protected house. We can key it to only open to those of Potter blood. I can cast it, you can be the secret keeper, and we'll tell Ayleigh the secret. Even though she's an infant, she'll still be able to see it if we tell her. If Voldemort breaks into the house, we can escape into that room even if there are anti-apparation and portkey wards up. Of course," he paused and looked sombre, "we'll try our best to take him out if he comes here. I think we should try to start making golems of us three. We can control them and fight Voldemort through them from the room." Lily looked vaguely daunted.

"He could attack any day, and it could take us weeks to learn how to make long lasting golems." she pointed out.

"True," James agreed, "but we can ward her room tonight, and at least have that protection." he was interrupted by Ayleigh whimpering as she woke up in her upstairs bedroom. He hopped off the sofa and walked up the stairs and peeked into her room.

Ayleigh was standing up, holding onto the rails and looking as though she didn't quite know whether to cry or just sit down and go back to sleep. Her eyes were puffy with sleep, and she blinked slowly and smiled as she saw James come into the room.

"Hey darling." he greeted her. She waved her arms in his direction.

"Ababa, up." she said. James smiled.

"Baba, huh?" he asked. "I know Lily taught you to say Papa; where did this Baba business come from?" he continued, and scooped fifteen month old into his arms where she nestled happily, leaning her head on his shoulder and popped a thumb into her mouth.

"Wanna drin', Baba." she said sleepily. James laughed, hoisted her a bit higher on his shoulder and headed down the stairs. Lily was curled up on the couch, a bottle of water in hand.

"Time for her midnight drink?" she asked, amused. Ayleigh woke up and requested a drink fairly regularly; not every night, but often enough that they could anticipate it being an occurrence at least a few times a week.

James joined Lily on the couch and resettled Ayleigh in his lap. She reached for the bottle happily.

"Amama, bott'l." she requested, humming happily to herself once she'd gotten it, and lay down in James's arms, blinking up at her parents around her mouthful of bottle. Lily smiled tenderly and Summoned a blanket from upstairs, tucking it around their daughter, and leaned her own head on James's shoulder.

"Do you really think Dumbledore's overreached himself?" she asked, voice quavering slightly as she grasped for any straws to prove that her childhood hero was still invincible. James wrapped an arm around her and hugged her close.

"It had to happen sometime, Lils." he said soberly. He relaxed, rested his chin on Lily's head, and blinking lazily at the fire. He hadn't realised that he'd drifted off on the couch, wife and baby in arm, until the twinging of the wards brought him to full awareness.

Carefully, he slid off the couch and padded to the front door and peered through the viewport. His blood froze in his veins as he saw black-robed figures heading up the walk, pale masks gleaming around the central figure who was tall, sinuous, and just a little too sleek and reptilian in appearance to be handsome.

James felt his forehead go cold as adrenaline took hold. Lily was stirring on the couch, and had fear in her eyes; clearly she had noticed the wards twinging as well. James sprinted the two steps to the couch and carefully handed over their daughter. Lily read the dire situation in James's eyes and rose quietly.

"Lily, take Ayleigh and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off ." Lily kissed James and then bolted up the stairs, Ayleigh now awake and babbling at Lily, waving her pudgy hands in the air.

Lily slammed the door shut and set Ayleigh down in her crib, who whimpered.

"Shhhh, baby girl." Lily said desperately, patting her on the head and racing back to the door. She spun her wand in a complex pattern and began chanting the names of the runes she had carved into Ayleigh's door and in a circle around the perimeter of the room when she was pregnant with the girl. They weren't designed to do anything—they were just a series of runes for protection against nightmares, boggarts, and danger that most people carved around the lintels of their children's rooms. Once they had been highly necessary in the more dangerous centuries, but the knowledge to power the runes had been lost. Lily desperately poured all her strength into the words, and forced her magic into them, hoping that they would do something to protect her daughter. Lily paused in her chanting to Transfigure a silver knife out of a toy broom, and slashed it across her palm. She dipped her finger into her own blood, involuntarily crying as she felt and heard the impact as a Blasting Curse exploded the front door of the house. Lily crossed the room from the door to Ayleigh and quickly, fast as she could, painted the runes for love, strength, and protection onto Ayleigh's forehead, then rested her hand on the toddler's head and poured the last vestiges of her magic into the runes. They flared silver for a moment, then vanished as if sucked into her skin. Lily whirled as the door was splintered open.

Voldemort glided into the room, moving far too smoothly to simply be walking. Seeing the two alone, he threw back his head and laughed, high and shrill, twirling his wand in one hand like a muggle stage performer.

Lily concealed the knife under her sleeve, and suppressed her tears. James wasn't dead, he couldn't be dead. He was just…bound. Or unconscious. He wasn't dead. She stepped in-between Voldemort and Ayleigh, shaking, but resolute. As if this beast was going to touch her daughter. At the last moment before she spoke, she recalled that she was supposed to be obsfucating Ayleigh's gender. Spur of the moment, she pulled a boy's name out of thin air.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!" she said, hating her begging tone.

"Stand aside you silly girl … stand aside now." Voldemort returned, sounding as if he would…spare her. Absently, Lily wondered if Sever…no, Snape...had made a deal with Voldemort that Lily be spared, because it wasn't Voldemort's style to tell mudbloods to stand aside. She stepped back, blocking Ayleigh from him with her body, willing him to come closer.

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead." she repeated. Voldemort twirled his wand absently and Lily was flung across the room.

"Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy… " she screamed, and flung herself bodily at Voldemort's ankle. She landed, clutched his robe, and Voldemort sneered down at her. Not paying attention to him, she quickly grabbed his ankle, shaking the knife out of her sleeve and scratching his skin with it, and let their blood mingle. Voldemort tried to draw back, annoyed at the her, but didn't appear to have noticed her action. She concealed a smirk and was thankful for the billowing robes that prevented him from being able to see what she'd just done. She drew one rune—banishment on his skin with hers and his blood mingled.

Lily realised she was empty. She'd poured all her strength into the room's wards and Ayleigh. She reached out, feeling for the charged wards in the room, and found that they were just humming with strength, but lacked a purpose. She pulled them into herself again, almost vibrating with the power.

Voldemort was ignoring her, kicked her in the head, forcing her to let go as her vision went blurry and she pushed herself upright, not realising she was screaming as she saw Voldemort focusing on Ayleigh, lifting his wand…beginning to speak. Voldemort was laughing that awful, high cackle. Lily shrieked and released all the power she was holding in a golden arc that swept the room at ground level, climbing the lintel of the door and the crib to flash golden in every rune she had drawn.

Voldemort blinked in astonishment and snapped out a spell, still aiming his wand at Ayleigh.

"Avada Kedavra!" There was a green flash of light, and then the gold light held on Ayleigh's forehead, trapped the green flash of death, connecting Voldemort and Ayleigh in a stream of sickly green and pale gold. Lily held it, felt the strain as she supported the golden shield with her own magic. Voldemort's eyes widened.

"What did you do?" he demanded hoarsely, his voice fading with each word. Lily smiled, blood bubbling on her lips as the last of her magic went and she continued to fuel the spell with her life force and sheer determination.

"Protecting my child, you bastard." she hissed, and had the satisfaction of seeing fear on his face just as a wrench yanked at her soul, and she collapsed onto the ground, lifeless.

 

* * *

 

Hundreds of miles away in Scotland, Albus Dumbledore was dozing at his desk after the Hallowe'en feast, trying to concentrate on paperwork but failing as dreams tugged him out of consciousness.

His desk buzzing brought him to full wakefulness and he bolted upright, gazing in horror at the small obsidian instrument that was spinning wildly and glowing…gold?

"No. No. No." he repeated to himself, panicking, and whirled, throwing a handful of floo powder into the fireplace.

"Godric's Hollow!" he commanded, but the fireplace remained resolutely closed. Dumbledore started swearing in earnest and lunged for Fawkes.

"Take me to Godric's Hollow!" he begged, and laid a finger on the bird's head, who swept them away in flash of reddish flames.

Dumbledore appeared just outside the Fidelius wards just in time to see a flash of gold in the uppermost room of the Godric's Hollow cottage.

"Not Harry!" he heard Lily shriek, and the clearly visible figure of the willowy, tall Voldemort fell in a flash of green and gold. The assembled Death Eaters, caught between the sight of their Lord falling, and Dumbledore appearing in a flash of light, phoenix on his shoulder, glaring like an avenging god, fled, racing for the property line and apparating away as soon as they cleared the wards. Dumbledore hurried inside. Tears sprang to his eyes as he stepped over the body of James Potter in the living room, and took the stairs two at a time till he ran through the wreckage of the door to Ayleigh's room. Of Voldemort, there was no physical sign. A dark, black miasma hung in the air, a phantasm, an incorporeal shade of a spirit, and Dumbledore drew himself up with indignation and began to cast a containment spell to trap the shade. It drew back, then fled, disappearing through the wall before the first syllable could fully cross Dumbledore's lips.

"I've failed." Albus said, shoulders drooping, and turned to examine the lifeless form of Lily on the ground. There was blood around her mouth, but she was smiling fiercely, eyes turned in the direction of Ayleigh's crib.

"What did you do?" Dumbledore asked her corpse, then sighed. He absolutely hated seeing children die, and the Potter child was certainly dead. If only Voldemort had attacked the Longbottoms rather than having sent Bellatrix. He thought regretfully, and considered how this gambit of pretending both children were boys had cost him. Clearly, Voldemort had identified with the halfblood baby "boy" more than the pureblooded Neville, and had acted accordingly. He supposed that Voldemort's shade was right now speeding for a loyal follower to possess their body and continue his reign of terror.

Ceasing his procrastinating thoughts, Dumbledore steeled himself and turned towards the crib to see the slaughtered, infant, Ayleigh. He was absolutely shocked to hear a whimper as he peered over the edge. Ayleigh was sitting up, forehead bleeding, and upon laying eyes on Dumbledore, she burst into tears and held up her arms.

"Amama, Baba." she sobbed. "Want. Want Baba, Amama."

Dumbledore reeled. Ayleigh was the child of prophecy? But…it referred to a boy… Dumbledore blinked. If it referred to a boy, then a boy Ayleigh would be.

Ignoring Fawke's squawk of disapproval as his plan solidified in his mind, Albus scooped Ayleigh into his arms and reached up to hold one of Fawke's feathers.

"Hogwarts, Fawkes." he directed, and they were gone in a flash of gold.

 

* * *

 

Dumbledore arrived in his office, and immediately cast a light sleeping spell over Ayleigh and sat down to think, thumbs pressed into his temples.

If Ayleigh had to be a boy, then the people who knew had to be silenced. A bit of a smile crept across his face as he considered just how fortuitous his discovery of the book about the fidelius ward had been. It was actually about the theory of the fidelius. There was a reason why the book had been banned in Britain, as the fidelius theory could be used to remove the knowledge of things from people's minds…or force information in, if one used the reverse of it.

The Fidelius was actually a mild form of mind control, or the obliviate, perhaps. It forcibly removed knowledge that people had, and replaced it with blank ignorance. That kind of reach into people's minds was illegal in most of the countries of the world, as government after government declared that everyone deserved full control of their own memories and faculties.

Dumbledore Summoned the book from his shelf and flipped through the pages till he found the information which he sought. Harry he recalled Lily saying before she died. I need a middle name. James. That's feasible. He decided, and walked over to Ayleigh where she lay limp and snoring lightly on the settee.

Albus flicked his wand up, zigzagged, and a flash of silver began to pour out of his wand.

"Fidelisero." he enunciated clearly, and the silver surrounded Ayleigh and swathed her in light. Dumbledore paused, and thought about his phrasing.

"Harry James Potter," he said, "the only child of James Potter and Lily Potter, is the Boy-Who-Lived." he declared. The light was incandescent, and was strongest around the child's face, obscuring her features. Slightly blinded by the light, Dumbledore failed to note that three runes flared on Ayleigh's forehead, before apparently absorbing some of the silver, and vanishing again. Dumbledore blinked and regained his vision just as the oozing cut on Ayleigh's forehead flashed with silver, and healed over in a jagged line that Dumbledore stared at, trying to decipher. The scholarly side of his mind interpreted it as a chaotic rune, but Dumbledore dismissed this notion –from where would have such a rune come?—and decided that it was the mark where Voldemort's Killing Curse had failed against the power of Lily's love.

He sighed again, feeling all of his age and years at the thought of Lily lying, fierce and proud, on the floor of Ayleigh—no, Harry, he corrected himself mentally—and gathered his thoughts for the next step.

He was grateful for his own foresight in always keeping the alchemical base on stock. Alchemy took a great deal of time to learn, and practice, but much of the time was taken up in preparing the alchemical bases. There were relatively few of them for the thousands of purposes that alchemy had, and it had been the work of a few, slowish years to prepare multiple samples of each base and preserve them under Stasis Charms.

Albus levitated Ayleigh's sleeping body into his lab, and after settling her in his largest cauldron-turned-makeshift-crib with a Transfigured blanket, he unsealed a vial of _Change_ and began to work—adding the essences of life, masculinity, and perception, oversaturating it with his magic to solidify the new creation into being.

The alchemist had always been unusually determined and stubborn, which had been very good for him in alchemy. The art required absolute control over one's desires. One had to use bases of essences and then absolutely will them into existing in the form the alchemist desired. Albus desiredthat Ayleigh be _Changed_ to a baby boy more than anything else in the world. He reinforced his will with images of the catastrophes that would strike if the prophecy was not fulfilled. It was deuced unkind of Fate to force him to set prophecy on course, he mused. It was a male who would beat Voldemort permanently; the prophecy declared it. A final flare of his will, and the small cauldron in front of his flashed in red and gold, Gryffindor colours—which reassured Albus somewhat in their familiarity—before settling into a thin, moving liquid that swirled around ceaselessly.

Albus Summed a Will-Strengthening potion and downed the whole thing in a gulp, feeling desperately in need of fortification. Normally he would prepare a philtre on one day, and then the invocation the next day after resting. Tonight, however, he had not the time for such luxuries. He had to return to Godric's Hollow and summon the appropriate witnesses for "Harry's" rescue from the wreckage before dawn, and already it was past midnight.

Ayleigh was sleeping restlessly under the sleeping charm, and Albus reinforced it. The change would be painful, he anticipated, and he preferred that Ayleigh sleep through it. He had no desire to subject his ears to her voluminous wails.

Albus Banished her clothes and blanket, and cast a light Scouring charm to rid her body and the cauldron of any contaminants which might interfere with the invocation. He lifted the heavy, philtre-full cauldron by hand and carefully tipped half the contents down the side of the cauldron, so that they fell under Ayleigh, and she was lifted and floated on the light gold liquid. That done, Albus took a deep breath and willed it to slide up the walls of the cauldron and form a half sphere around her. He tipped the rest in, and it suspended itself above Ayleigh, forming the other half of the sphere. Albus set down the small cauldron and then returned to hover above the gold-domed cauldron containing his soon-to-be-Boy of prophecy.

Another deep breath, with Albus solidifying his will, and then he clenched his fist, and the sphere imploded, coating Ayleigh until she resembled a golden statue of a toddler.

"Be _Changed_." Albus invoked, and Ayleigh's body was obscured as the philtre flowed around her body in fast moving bands of red and gold. Her bodily features blended and reformed, and then the golden philtre vanished as her—now clearly his—body absorbed it. Albus sighed in relief, and lifted the sleeping charm. A very naked, very displeased, and very cranky baby boy sat up in the cauldron and began to sob.

Albus picked up Harry, soothing him with gentle pats to the back, and exited the lab, heading for Fawke's perch, where the bird hunkered, glaring at Albus.

"To Godric's Hollow." he told the bird, who squawked at him, most un-melodiously. Albus raised one hand in defense.

"It was necessary for the fulfilment of the prophecy." he said wearily. "It is for the Greater Good." Fawkes eyeballed him, then appeared to sigh and fluttered over to Albus's shoulder and whisked the three of them away in flash of fire.

 

* * *

 

At Godric's Hollow, "Harry" now clothed, wrapped up in blankets in a large basket that Dumbledore had emptied of potatoes and repurposed as a toddler carrier, lay at Dumbledore's feet, once again totally asleep under a sleeping charm. Dumbledore placed him by Lily's body, and departed via phoenix fire for Hogwarts.

He sat at his desk, and pondered to whom to send Harry. He decided that it was too risky to leave Harry with anyone in the wizarding world. Between the threat from Death Eaters, who might never all be caught, the threat to the boy's ego if he were raised by a family who would regard him as a hero rather than a child—and Albus was under no illusions that he would ever be treated normally. The Wizarding world adored having larger-than-life heroes—Albus was not willing to risk keeping Harry in magical Britain. He sighed, and decided on Lily's muggle relatives. Surely they would take good care of the boy. He had heard from Lily that they had a son near Harry's age; friendly, boyish competition would keep Harry humble, and Lily's parents had been very sensible folk; Petal…wait, no, Petunia? would surely be sensible as well and treat Harry fairly

Having decided, Albus jotted out a note to Petunia Dursley, and notes to Sirius, Peter, Hagrid, and Minerva and handed the latter four to Fawkes, who eyed him, then flashed away to deliver them.

Then, Dumbledore made his way out of the Hogwarts wards, and apparated back to Godric's Hollow, and awaited the arrival of his chosen witnesses.

Sirius was already there, coming down the stairs, Harry in his arms.

"They're dead?" he demanded, "you said the fidelius would hold!" he declared. Albus had a chill go down his spine. James had told him that Sirius would be their secret keeper. The man looked genuinely distraught, and his bare arms clearly showed no Dark Mark but…no. He must have told Voldemort. Albus was grim, but forced a genial regret onto his face.

"No ward is infallible, Sirius." he said gently, and held out his arms for Harry. Sirius, still crying, held onto the child.

"I'm keeping her." he declared, looking protective. Albus chilled further. The Fidelius must not have settled yet.

"Harry," he enunciated very clearly, "will be safer with me. You want your godson to be safe, right?" he asked. Sirius looked confused for a moment, then his face cleared.

"Of course I want him to be safe." Sirius agreed, and then a flash of anger: "I have to go find Peter now!" he said, and dumping Harry in Dumbledore's arms, spun on his heel and almost crashed into Hagrid, who had popped out of the Potters' floo during their discussion. Sirius blinked, then apparated away, having apparently forgotten about his motorcycle which was next to the cottage fence.

"Ah, Hagrid." Dumbledore greeted the shaggy half-giant, who was sniffling and crying into his shaggy beard.

"I c'an b'lieve it, Alb's." he said, his words even less clear than usual due to his choked throat.

"It is a great tragedy." agreed Albus, "But we are blessed in it that Harry defeated Voldemort due to Lily having sacrificed her life for her love of her son." Hagrid looked down at Dumbledore in wonder.

"Is tha' wha' happen'd, then?" he asked in awe. Dumbledore twinkled at his groundskeeper.

"Indeed, my boy." he said, mainly drawing conclusions from incomplete data, and coming up mostly wrong. He transferred Harry to Hagrid's arms.

"Please bring him to Privet Drive." he instructed, casting a Directional Charm onto Sirius's motorcycle. "Sirius left his bike for you. While you're en route, I must see to some important business." he explained. Hagrid nodded floppily, enormous arms cradling the toddler closer till he almost disappeared into Hagrid voluminous beard. He turned and headed towards the motorcycle, mumbling under his breath.

"Poor James an' Lily. Great man, Dumbledore. Great man." Dumbledore watched him take off into the sky sombrely, then apparated to Diagon Alley.

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes of swearing under his breath later that James had gone ahead and made a will designating Ayleigh Potter his heir later, Dumbledore managed to convince, bribe and intimidate Blodrug into forging a document using a bit of James's hair that Dumbledore had taken from the dead man as a physical catalyst for the Potter magic to accept the new will as newest, and the legitimate one. He copied the old will over almost precisely, only changing it to specifically request Dumbledore to use his knowledge and expertise to care for Harry however he saw best.

Pleased with himself, Dumbledore filed the new will with Blodrug, and left. As his robes swished out of the office, Blodrug bared his teeth and maliciously filed the old, real will with the new one rather than destroying it as was normal to do when a new will was created.

If this came back to bite Dumbledore in the ass later, it would only bring him entertainment, and the wizard deserved it for his highhandedness over the years.

 

* * *

 

Petunia yawned and stretched as she woke up, then wrapped herself up in her favourite, fluffy robe, and wandered downstairs to retrieve the paper and milk from the front stoop before starting breakfast, as was her every Sunday morning routine.

She opened the door, then blinked in astonishment at the basket, which proclaimed "potatoes" on one side, with a drawn graphic of a pile of potatoes on the side, but which most certainly did not contain potatoes.

Apprehensively, she parted the piles of blankets and discovered the face of a toddler, scarred, and framed with long, curly black hair. Petunia shrieked and jumped backwards, then looked around the neighbourhood hoping that no one was up to see these freakish shenanigans.

Petunia picked up the basket, milk, and paper, and fled for the kitchen, locking the front door behind her.

With shaking hands, she withdrew the toddler from the basket, wondering how it was that anyone would leave a baby outside on a freezing night—did freaky people care so little for their children?—and noticed a piece of parchment fell out of the baby's clothes as she did so.

"Shhhhh…..um…Ayleigh." Petunia recalled the birth announcement she'd received from Lily, and then promptly thrown away.

She opened the paper and read with a sinking heart the note from the 'great' Albus Dumbledore, telling her that her sister and good-for-nothing husband were dead, and that their…son? Her nephew...Harry was being left to Petunia's care. He explained that if she kept Harry, her family would be protected by wards which would keep away wizards who meant them harm.

Harry. Nephew? Petunia staggered slightly as her memory rearranged, and then she blinked at the sombre baby boy in her arms. Harry James Potter, she thought, glaring at the imposition.

"You be a speck of trouble and you'll regret it." she warned him, and then set the toddler down in Dudley's playpen and started to cook breakfast, absolutely dreading what she would tell Vernon.

As she flipped the fifteenth perfectly fried egg from the pan to the platter in the warm oven, Vernon clumped down the stair, scratching his bollocks and yawning widely.

"Morning, Pet." he said, wandering into the kitchen and pouring himself a huge mug half full of coffee, filling it the rest of the way with cream and sugar.

"Morning, Vernon." she smiled up at him. "I've cooked your favourite today…" she said, hoping to entice into a truly wonderful mood before dropping the bombshell on him. He brightened, and then her plan was utterly derailed by the sound of a wail from the living room. Vernon abruptly lost his slouch.

"What was that?" he demanded. "Dudders never sounds like that. What's wrong with him?" Petunia hastened to calm him down.

"It's not Dudley." she said, trying to figure out how precisely to explain this. "Um, my sister and her husband…died last night and…" she wrung her hands. She wasn't any fonder of magic than Vernon was, but Vernon had absolutely despised every magical person who he'd met, sensing their vague condescension to him as a muggle, and oh how he hated that word and the smug attitude, and was likely to react with a great deal of anger. She sighed as he merely grunted.

"Good riddance." he said, looking vaguely smug.

"That's not all, dear," she prevaricated. Vernon glared at her, sensing that he was about to really dislike the news that was coming. Petunia wrung her hands and dropped the bombshell. "AndtheyleftHarryhereforustotakecareofbecausehe'snotsafeinthemagicalworld." she blurted out. Vernon reddened.

"Left him here? Freaks can't take care of one of their own?" Petunia shrugged.

"I found him in a basket on the front step with a note." Vernon peered outside disbelievingly and noted the fog and the frost on their front lawn.

"What kind of freaks would leave a toddler outside in this?" he demanded. Petunia didn't know either.

"The freaks probably are tougher than we are. Maybe at least when it comes to the cold?" she offered. Vernon appeared to accept this explanation.

"The brat will have to work for its keep." he warned Petunia. "No letting him be pampered like a little prince. We'll keep him sensible and work the freakiness out of him." he declared, feeling prouder of himself for his plan to save Harry from being freaky by the minute. Petunia nodded furiously, just relieved that Vernon hadn't exploded on her for the news.

"Damn freaks." Vernon muttered, taking the platter from food from the oven and manoeuvring himself through the narrow doorway to the dining room and plopped down in his oversized, reinforced chair and began to tuck in without fanfare.

 

* * *

 

Harry went eighteen months without a single episode of freakiness, and Vernon had relaxed around the child.

"Girl just needed to be in a good, wholesome environment." he bragged to Petunia, bouncing the little boy, barely half Dudley's size, on one knee, with his own son happily bouncing on his other.

The cousins were now almost three years old which was, unbeknownst to the Dursleys, generally the very youngest that magical children began demonstrating magical abilities.

Petunia was setting the table for supper, and smiled at her little family. She had been so apprehensive when they'd taken Harry in, but things had turned out all right, even if Vernon kept accidentally calling Harry a girl.

"Harry's your nephew." she reminded her husband, who looked puzzled.

"I know that." he returned. "You're queer sometimes, Pet. Why do you keep telling me that he's a boy?" Petunia bit her lip and didn't respond, but just shrugged and forced a little laugh. He never recalled when he'd slipped and called Harry a her, either. It was downright….freaky.

"Supper's ready." she called her boys with a smile. Vernon lumbered to his feet, deposited Harry in the play pen, and carried Dudley over to his chair. Petunia had started the tradition of making Harry watch them eat, and then giving him the leftovers of Dudley's plate. She was determined that the little freaky spawn know from a young age that he was not equal to her Dudders, and that he and his freakiness would always come second to her real son. Vernon was happily oblivious, and thought that Harry was so much smaller due to genetics –freaky, small genetics—rather than the truth that Petunia was overfeeding Dudley, and underfeeding Harry.

Harry, hungry and cranky, although he was always quietly sombre, having learned within weeks of his arrival at Privet Drive that making a fuss would result in being ignored even longer, stared longingly at the bottle of milk in Dudley's hand. He sighed and rested his chin on the edge of the playpen, wanting the bottle.

Abruptly, the bottle flew from the startled Dudley's grip into Harry's. Astonished at his good fortune, Harry happily sat down and popped the nipple into his mouth and started drinking.

Dudley was wailing from angry shock. Vernon shot to his feet, having witnessed the entire thing and bellowed like a wounded bull.

"Freakiness!" he shouted. "Pet, he magicked that over to himself!" Petunia turned pale and shaky. Vernon's wrath was to be feared. She had been harder on Harry than she normally would be in an attempt to pre-emptively please her husband, so that he wouldn't feel the need to discipline Harry with the viciousness of which she knew he was capable.

Vernon stalked over to Harry and yanked the bottle out of his mouth. Harry shrank and stared up at Vernon with terrified eyes as the man leaned down and spat in his face:

"None of your freakiness in this house. You're going to your room." he declared, holding Harry in the air with his grip on the boy's upper arm, then paused.

"No, freaks don't have rooms." He decided, and dragged Harry over to the cupboard under the stairs, which was half full of cleaning supplies. Yes, that would do nicely, he concluded.

"Pet!" he roared, "go fetch his cot!" Petunia bustled past him up the stairs and fetched Harry's tiny toddler bed, which had been Dudley's till a few weeks before when they'd handed it down to Harry. She stuffed it into the back of the cupboard, and Vernon flung Harry bodily onto it.

"Shut up." he hissed into the boy's face, who was whimpering quietly. "I wasted affection on you, you freak." he spat, feeling betrayed and angry. Vernon slammed the cupboard shut and headed straight for the garage in search of a padlock. Freaky little thing was not going to be free to roam the house if he, Vernon Dursley, had anything to do with it.

Alone, and in the dark, Harry sat down and leaned against the door of the cupboard and put his face to a tiny crack, seeking the light from the hall as comfort from the oppressive, chemically-scented darkness.

He did not cry.

 

 

 


	2. Not Your Average Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things occasionally go Harry's way, but not very often, and that's usually the Dursleys' fault, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, all! I've had two laptops die in the last year, moved continents twice, gone through a health crisis, a schooling crisis, and more three times. For several months I thought I'd lost everything I written and planned for this story on my first dead computer, but praise be to Ra, I did not.  
> You have my solemn vow that I will attempt to work on this as much as possible now.  
> And with no further ado: the tale.
> 
> warning: non-con, underage, rape, sexual abuse.

Vernon crept down the stairs early in the August 1984 morning and wrenched the cupboard door open with an "aha!" As always, Harry was awake, sitting up, and dressed in Dudley's castoffs, thin face upturned to the opening of the door. Vernon huffed. He believed that freaks were lazy, using magic to do everything for them, and kept a weather eye on Harry to catch him in his laziness. Despite his best efforts to catch him up, Harry was extremely obedient and diligent, and was always awake when Vernon opened the cupboard. It never occurred to the now-approaching-obese man that it would be impossible to sleep through the noise that an even-tiptoeing man of his bulk coming down the stairs made. However, Harry was rather slow about his tasks, which always infuriated Vernon and prompted punishments. It truly never occurred to the man that Harry was slow because he was permanently in a state of starvation, and didn't have the energy to move quickly.

"Up to the bathroom." Vernon commanded, and followed the boy back up the stairs to the hall toilet. Harry walked inside the door and waited obediently for Vernon to come inside. They had established a routine early on: Harry was only allowed outside his cupboard when he was working, eating, or using the toilet. Vernon always watched him while he was out of his cupboard, keeping an eye open for any rebellion or worse, magical behaviour.

Vernon entered the bathroom and shut the door, and stood over Harry, who looked up to him, hands clasped.

"May I use the toilet, Uncle Vernon?" Harry asked in his thin, high voice. Vernon nodded and folded his arms. Harry accordingly went to the toilet, lifted the seat and lid, and relieved himself, being very careful to not splatter or make any sort of mess. When he finished, he took some toilet paper and wiped down all the surfaces he may have contaminated, shut the toilet lid and flushed it. Knowing he was always permitted to wash his hands without first asking permission, he went to the sink stood on tiptoe to get a bit of soap and washed his hands under hot water. He turned off the sink, wiped down the handles, threw away the hand towel he used to dry his hands and turned back to Vernon.

"Thank you." he said meekly. Vernon silently opened the door and let Harry out.

"Go cook. Pancakes." he ordered. Five-year old Harry slipped down the stairs and headed to the kitchen to start his morning's work.

Dudley was now, attending nursery school, learning to read, write, and bully the smaller kids without getting caught. He was surprisingly bad at the latter, as he never learned subtlety when bullying Harry. Petunia and Vernon egged him on when they caught him at it, and occasionally gave advice on how to do it better.

Harry was doing most of the chores around the house and learning that no matter how obedient and good he was, he would inevitable be punished for his best efforts and smallest mistakes. Surprisingly, Harry tended to be happier than Dudley, the latter of whom was ever demanding new and better things. Harry, on the other hand, took delight in perfectly flipped pancakes, the intricate designs on the backs of leaves, and the rare free moments in which he was permitted to sit outside on the lawn and simply do nothing.

But he was afraid of Vernon. If Harry had spoken French, he would have appreciated how the verb  _"_ _to fear"_  was conjugated. " _Il me donne peur_ ",  he would have said: " _He gives me fear_ _._ "

Vernon was a rare man: pure muggle. Most people, wizarding or muggles, were actually a mix of both. Even famous "pureblood" families had mundane ancestors, far back in their family trees. There were very few people in the world who didn't have ancestors who were both, and thus the effects of magic on people who were either purely magical, or purely muggle was virtually unknown. Vernon Dursley had exactly no magic in his background. Somehow, through thousands of years of recorded history, and millions of years of pre-history, there was an unbroken line of non-magicals who had never interbred with a magical being, and the result was Vernon Dursley: pure muggle, and curiously resistant to magic in all forms, including mind magic, which in turn, included the Fidelious charm which Dumbledore had reverse-cast over all Britain.

Simply: Vernon Dursley was confused. His mind was convinced that both Harry was his nephew, and his niece. He did not like being confused, and Vernon Dursley had always been angry when he was confused. Harry, as usual, bore the consequences with equanimity through his suffering. How could he bear it otherwise? This was the only life which he could remember.

  


This morning in particular, pancake morning, was the sort which Harry dreaded. Firstly, it was Monday, which meant that Vernon and Dudley would be in foul moods, as neither particularly liked work nor school, and took it out on Harry.

Secondly, Harry was five. He didn't have the hand eye coordination and motor control necessary to flip pancakes with any particular skill, and he was truly abysmal in his attempts. Every pancake morning resulting in painful punishment, banishment to his cupboard earlier than usual, and generally no food for the entire day.

This morning was no different. Splat. Harry only managed to flip every other pancake even close to correctly; the rest resembled doughy omelettes, only partially cooked: the rest burnt and oozing raw dough simultaneously. Gritting his teeth, Harry carried the pancakes out to the table, which he had already set for the three real members of the family, and backed into his corner and knelt, hands on knees and head lowered, as he had been painfully taught to do, and called in a low voice

"Food is on the table Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Cousin Dudley." Tromping footsteps announced the arrival of the family, and Harry held his breath as he waited for the inevitable. Still, even though he was expecting it, he still gasped as Vernon's huge hand descended on his and lifted him into the air by his upper arm. His much abused shoulder only protested mildly from the rough, frequent treatment as Vernon shook him at eye level.

"I said for you to cook pancakes, boy, not these lumps of inedible shite!" Vernon shook Harry for emphasis on each word, and hauled him to the cupboard door and flung him inside. Harry scrambled up and bolted to the door and looked up pleadingly up at Vernon, stomach cramping horribly with pain.

"Please," he said faintly. "May I eat to-day?" Vernon only snorted and slammed the door. Harry could hear the padlock clicking shut, and sighed, squeezing his thin side in an attempt to alleviate the cramps. He sighed again, lying down on the bed and closed his eyes. Harry slept nearly all the time when he was inside his cupboard; when he was asleep, he didn't feel the pain.

* * *

 

"Happy birthday, Duddykins!"

Harry looked up as Petunia gave Dudley a huge, sloppy kiss on the forehead and began setting gifts in front of her chubby son. Dudley blinked up at her.

"I wuv you Mummy." he smiled cherubically before tearing into the wrapping paper. Petunia nearly teared up.

"Mummy loves you too!" she beamed, procuring even more presents from who-knows-where and setting them in Dudley's stack. Little boys Dudley and Harry's age in the neighborhood sat around in a circle, looking enviously at the stack of presents, wiggling, and staring at the giant, frosting encrusted cake. Dudley cheered and waved each present around as he tore open their packaging, before throwing it aside and diving for the next package.

Harry was peeking around the corner of the kitchen, nibbling a fingernail and watching wide-eyed at the display.

"When's my birthday?" he wondered, blinking hard to get the involuntary tears from hunger out of his eyes. Petunia spotted his wide eyes a few moments later: her lips thinned, and her eyes grew steely. She gestured sharply with her chin towards the stairwell.

"Get. Out." she mouthed silently at him, and blanching at his crime of watching the normal people interact, Harry fled for his cupboard, only to bounce off Vernon on the way. His uncle, clearly coming from the bathroom, if the toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe was any indicated, picked him up by one arm and seemed caught between anger and anticipation.

"Well, girl." Vernon rumbled quietly. "Seems I've caught you while Petunia's busy." Harry flailed briefly, then subsided at a glare from his uncle. Vernon put him down and pushed him towards the stairs. Harry, confused, tried to go into his cupboard but Vernon shook his head.

"Uh-huh." he admonished. "Go to Dudley's second bedroom."

Harry blinked, then scurried to obey.

"Maybe I need to clean to make room for the new toys?" he wondered, then brightened at the idea that he might be able to have some of the broken castoffs as he stepped through the door and surveyed the mess, already hoping for one of the superhero figurines.

Vernon followed him in and shut the door. Dudley's old toddler bed was in the room; a few months before, Vernon and Petunia had gotten him a "big boy bed", and the old one was relegated to the second bedroom. Harry still slept on Dudley's old cot, despite being nearly as tall as it was long.

Vernon sat down on the cot and summoned Harry to him. Harry sidled up, apprehensive at the attention from his Uncle, which had never happened before in his memory, although he couldn't be expected to remember how proudly Vernon had played with him when he had been perceived as normal.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

"Such big eyes." Vernon mused, wedging his chubby fingers inside the oversized neck of Harry's t-shirt and wrapping his hand around Harry's shoulder. Harry squirmed, but didn't dare move away. Vernon glared at him anyway.

"Stand still and be quiet, girl." Vernon ordered, and Harry stood straight up and froze. Vernon's lips curled up slightly and his other hand reached for the rope belt holding up the oversized cut-off shorts.

"Vernon?" Petunia's voice called up the stairs accompanied by footsteps. Vernon swore under his breath and stood.

"Well, don't just stand there. Clean up, boy!" he bellowed, then, "In here, Pet!"

Petunia opened the door and saw Vernon standing over Harry, who was busily sorting broken from functional toys.

"Good idea." she said, glaring at Harry. "Dudders will need new room for his things, and the freak needs to be busy." Vernon nodded amiably.

"Party almost over? It's almost time for Marge to come over." he said, and Petunia's lips twitched slightly at the name of her not particularly liked sister-in-law.

"Yes." she responded, turned on her heel and walked away with a parting glare at Harry.

* * *

 

"Happy birthday, freak."

Harry looked up as his cupboard was opened, and Petunia tossed in a bent clotheshanger. Harry picked it up and blinked at her.

"Th...thank you Aunt 'Tunia." he said, lisping around a lost babytooth. He blinked again, gathered up his courage, and imitating Dudley, said "I love you, Mummy."

Petunia froze for a moment, face turning pale then red in rapid succession, and she yanked the child out of the cupboard with one arm, and slapped him viciously with her other hand.

"Never. Say. That. Again." she gritted out, punctuation each word with another slap. Harry swayed dizzily, explosions of pain erupting in his head.

"Yes Aunt 'Tunia." he said meekly, crying quietly and clasping the hanger in front of him. Petunia had whirled around and stalked away.

"Going out with Dudley, Vernon!" she called up the stairs. "The freak was impertinent: punish him for me, would you?" Vernon and Dudley appeared out of their bedrooms.

"Certainly, Pet." Vernon grunted in response.

"We going to get candy, Mummy?" Dudley asked excitedly, eyes brightening at the thought of sweets.

"Yes, Dudders!" Petunia exclaimed, regaining some of her good humor. "To celebrate you being such a good boy for Mummy!" Dudley clattered down the stairs, slugging Harry's arm on the way, and bolted for the car. Petunia gave a meaningful look at Vernon and followed her son out the door.

"You're in for the whupping of your life, boy!" Vernon roared, stalked down the stairs and dragged Harry up to the second bedroom. Petunia could be heard to chuckle meanly outside before the car door slammed and the engine started.

"I'm sorry, Uncle!" Harry flailed weakly against his uncle's strong grip as he was flung into the room.

"None of that." Vernon said sternly, then went to the bed again and sat.

"Take off your clothes." Harry blinked away rapidly gathering tears. Being whipped without his clothes hurt so much more! However, he hurried to obey his uncle: stalling a punishment always made it worse.

He had just dropped his grungy, second-hand pants when Vernon reached out and tugged him closer.

"On my lap." Vernon ordered. Harry obediently, although shaking in fear and crying harder, draped himself over his uncle's knee to be spanked. He held his breath as best he could and waited, confused with Vernon only stroked the bare skin on his bottom. H Harry held himself perfectly still, waiting for the blow to drop. He finally couldn't hold his breath anymore, and exhaled noisily just as Vernon's fingers slid down his crack and touched his anus. Without knowing why, he flailed, uncomfortable beyond his comprehension.

"S..stop, please." he said, crying in earnest again. Vernon lifted his hand and slapped Harry's bottom, hard. Harry shrieked a little and drooped.

"Be quiet, girl, or it'll be worse for you." Vernon ordered, and Harry continued to cry as quietly as he could.

It seemed to last forever to Harry, with his childish perception of time and fear of the intermittent blows which fell whenever he made noise. Vernon's huge hands continued roaming all over Harry, touching him, probing a little inside of his bottom, and caressing his prebuescent body. Harry was somewhat relieved that he wasn't being beaten, but felt disgusting, like he needed to get in bath to wash away the awful feeling of Vernon's hands.

Eventually, Harry was stood back on his feet, with Vernon eyeing him, and seemed to be considering something. Then, finally, Vernon clambered to his own feet and trudged out the door.

"Put on your clothes, freak." he ordered over his shoulder, "then come make me lunch." Harry, shaking, hastened to obey.

* * *

 

Late August, and Harry was excited. He stood by the front door, shifting from one foot to another in anticipation as he waited for Dudley and Petunia to come and join him. This was his first day of school! He blew his long, unruly hair out of his eyes and adjusted Dudley's old backpack on his shoulders. He even had a lunchbox with an apple inside. Dudley had taken a bite out of it and thrown a fit that it was too sour and flung it against the wall. Petunia had fetched it and decided it would make a good lunch for Harry and put it in a battered, rusty, tin lunchbox, and told Harry to put it in his backpack.

Harry was so glad that he got to go to school instead of sitting all day in his cupboard. He had heard Vernon complaining to Petunia that they had to send him to primary school, but Petunia had insisted, saying that it was…cumplsory…no, compulsory—Harry memorised the long word with relish—once children were five years of age.

Vernon descended on Harry like the wrath of god.

"Look here, boy. You behave at school. I've told the teachers to watch out for you and call me if you set one. Toe. Out. Of. Line." he punctuation his last words with pokes to Harry's chest with a thick, meaty finger. "If anyone asks why your clothes are shabby and you have bruises, what do you tell them?"

"I fall a lot when I play with Dudley, because I'm clumsy. My clothes are shabby because you can barely afford one child, and you were kind and took me in when my parents died." Harry barely whispered, staring at the holes in Dudley's old trainers where the tips of his toes poked out. Vernon grunted and stepped past Harry out the door, carrying his own lunchbox and briefcase with him. Petunia and a complaining Dudley were close behind.

"Mommeeeeee." the older boy whined petulantly, "Why does the freak have to come? I don't want him to be at school with me." Petunia stooped and hugged Dudley in an effort to comfort him.

"It's all right, Diddy-dumkins." she reassured the boy, "Harry's not going to your primary school. We aren't paying for him to attend a prestigious school. We're dropping him off on the way at Saint Anthony's." Dudley looked smug and pleased about that, and, holding his chin eye, waddled past Harry and headed out the door, intentionally stomping on Harry's foot as he went.

* * *

  


"Grace Peters." called the pretty, young teacher, holding the roll sheet. A tiny, red-haired girl two rows ahead of Harry shyly raised her hand.

"Hewe." she lisped. The teacher bestowed an approving smile on the tyke and returned to her list.

"Harry Potter." Dead silence. The teacher looked confused and cast an eye over the few remaining students, mentally counting them, and came to the conclusion that all the students on her list were present.

"Harry Potter?" she asked encouragingly, assuming that the child must be extraordinarily shy.

Harry, in one of the middle rows, had been waiting for "Boy" to be called. On the second repetition of "Harry Potter" being called, his memory suddenly stirred, and he recalled sitting on Vernon's knee as his uncle said

"Look at this, Harry. The president of Grunnings personally gave this to me today. It's a merit for a job well done, see? If you always work hard, behave, and never do anything freaky, you might get a merit someday, too, boy."

Harry bolted upright in his seat.

"Harry Potter?" the teacher asked a final time. Harry raised his hand.

"That's me…I think." he finished bashfully.

"You think?" laughed the teacher, "I'm sure you know your own name, Harry." Harry flushed as all the students in the class laughed, and sank lower in his seat, stuffing both his hands under his bottom and sat on them to prevent himself from balling them up; that was a sure-fire way to get his ears boxed most painfully. The teacher, Miss Claire, saw his reaction and was immediately penitent for having embarrassed the obviously painfully shy boy.

* * *

 

"Why don't you go play with the other boys?" The tiny blond girl, even smaller than Harry, with huge brown eyes asked in an accusatory fashion as Harry, on his first day of school, stood before the group of girls braiding their hair.

"I'd rather play with you." Harry responded, wringing his hands together. "They're playing guns. I want to learn to braid hair." The girl looked taken aback.

"You're not making fun of us, are you?" she demanded. "My brother says he'll braid my hair, and then he pulls it!" she glared at Harry as though he had already seized her tresses.

"No! No, I wouldn't do that!" Harry said, horrified.

"Well, ok." she responded. "Sit over here: I'll show you. What's your name anyway?"

"Harry." he said, almost too quietly to be heard. These girls hadn't been in his class, and hadn't heard that he was the boy who forgot his name.

"I'm Emma. This is Paige," she indicated a brunette with chubby cheeks, dimples, and a huge smile, "Eloise," a sandy-haired girl with two missing front teeth, "and Jana." the last to be introduced was the tallest of the bunch, gangly, with long, dark hair and solemn disposition.

"Hi Harry!" they chorused, sitting in a row practicing braiding rather unevenly.

Emma sat behind Jana and gathered up all her loose hair.

"So you make it into three, and take turns wrapping them over each other, like this..." Harry watched attentively. After half the braid was completed, Emma eyed Harry again.

"You can try it on my hair if you want, but pull it and I'll slap you!" Harry nodded, smiled brilliantly, carefully divided Emma's hair into three bunches, and started braiding it.

* * *

 

The kindergarten teacher watched over her first-day class with a benevolent eye. The boys were playing well together en masse: an elaborate game that seemed to be an incarnation of Cops and Robbers, as every kindergarten class had played since the beginning of time. No surprises there. Groups of girls were here and there: a few climbing trees; one group playing dolls; one braiding hair and wreaths of flowers. She paused in her scan and blinked. There was a boy braiding hair, too.

"Must have loads of sisters." she thought, and went back to observing the class just in time to run across the field and grab a stick away from a large, blond boy, who had been hitting a smaller boy with it.

\--------------

Harry was having the best day of his life. Emma, Paige, Eloise, and Jana were so nice! He learned how to braid hair, and flowers, and they didn't hit him! His teacher, Claire, had a nice smile, and told him his drawing was very nice, and patted him on the head. Right now, Harry was sitting at a desk on the floor, carefully writing down sums. The teacher was at the front writing them on the board, while they carefully copied down the numbers. Harry stuck his tongue out of his mouth a little, he was concentrating so hard on making his numbers just right.

"All right, that's enough for right now." the teacher called, smiling at them. "Write your name at the top, bring me the papers, and then get a mat for naptime."

Half of the kids moaned at the mention of napping, but still hastened to follow the teacher's instructions. As each child brought Claire their page, Claire would let them pick out a sticker for it, and gave them a little hug. Harry sidled the line and waited his turn. Claire smiled at him and examined his page.

"Good job, Harry!" she exclaimed. "You got the "5" just right, and that's really hard! Here, pick out a sticker for your page." Harry stared at the page, overwhelmed. He...did good? And he got a sticker? Finally, Harry raised his hand and pointed tremblingly at the one of a dinosaur.

"Dinosaur, please, ma'am." he said, and Claire laughed as she affixed it to the top of his page.

"Just Claire, Harry." she said, and hugged him. Harry flinched as she approached him, and couldn't stop a quiet yelp as her hug pushed on some of his bruises. She stopped, concerned.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. Harry shrugged.

"Here?" she touched his shoulder gently, and Harry flinched again.

"OK, Harry." she said, concern in her eyes. "Come with me a minute? I want to make sure that you're all right."

She picked up the telephone on her desk and pushed one button. Harry was shaking now. What would happen? Was he going to get spanked for having a bruise? Claire was talking quietly on the phone, glancing at Harry every now and then. Finally, she nodded, thanked the person on the other end and hung up.

"It's OK, Harry. I'm just going to have the nurse look at your shoulder, OK?" Harry shrugged again, and Claire sighed.

"You're just fine, Harry." she reassured him. "Come sit by me till the nurse gets here, mm? You'll get to skip nap time." she enticed him. Harry smiled shyly up at her through his fringe and sat down on the floor beside Claire. She put an arm over his shoulders and he leaned against her side cautiously, and they regarded the mostly-slumbering children on their mats on the floor.

A soft tap on the door sounded and Claire started a bit.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "That must be the nurse come to fetch you now." Harry looked apprehensive again, and Claire took his hand and led him to the door and opened it. A tall, gray-haired man was on the other side and beamed down on Harry.

"This must be young Harry with the bruise!" he said jovially. "I am Mister Anderson, but you can call me Bob." Harry blinked solemnly up at him and said nothing. Mister Anderson blinked back.

"Well come along, then, lad." he said, reaching down for Harry's hand, who looked at Miss Claire pleadingly.

"It's ok." she said, and waved at him as they walked away. Harry had begun to shake a little, but he tried to stay calm. It was always worse when he cried. Vernon hated crybabies.

Lost in his anxiety, Harry didn't stop in time and ran into Mister Anderson when the man stopped to unlock a door with a glass window.

"I'm sorry!" he cried out, shrinking away from Mister Anderson.

"Quite all right, Harry." Mister Anderson soothed, and led Harry into the room, "It was clearly an accident."

Mister Anderson led Harry to a funny, soft table with paper on it and then dropped his hand.

"All right now, I'm going to look at your shoulder and see if it needs any medicine to make it feel better. Can you take off your shirt and climb on the table for me? There's a stepstool here." he pulled one out from the side of the table. Harry was even more apprehensive now, but pulled off his shirt and climbed up accordingly.

* * *

 

Bob Anderson did not like some aspects of his job one bit. This boy was far too thin, dirty, and simply covered in bruises. He pinched the bridge of his nose and bit back a sigh. No sense in making the boy think he was doing something wrong. Instead, he busied himself looking clinically at the bruising pattern and estimated that they ranged from brand new, to weeks old and nearly gone.

"How'd you get these, then?" he asked, still affecting a jovial tone to put the boy at ease. Harry shrugged with one shoulder, not looking up at all.

"I fell when Dudley and I were playing." he said, and Bob made a mental note to find out who this "Dudley" was and to tell his parents that the boy was bullying Harry.

"All of them?" he asked sceptically. Harry nodded, looking frightened.

"My uncle and aunt love me!" he burst out suddenly. "They took me in when my parents were gone, but I'm so expensive they can barely afford Dudley, and he's bigger, so I wear hand-me-downs."

Bob raised an eyebrow. That was....somewhat convincing. He supposed that it was vaguely possible that Harry had gotten all these bruises from playing with a bigger, careless cousin, and if the family was really poorly off it would explain the shabby clothes.

He kept his thoughts off his face, and dabbed some anesthetic cream on the largest of the bruises.

"That should help them feel a bit better. You be more careful now, Harry." Harry poked a bruise and a delighted smile crosses his face as he felt that it hurt much less now.

"Thank you Mister Anderson!" he exclaimed. Bob smiled.

"No problem." he responded, touseling Harry's hair and handing him his shirt. "Come back to me whenever you get hurt, or if the kids get too rough at playtime, you hear?" Harry nodded vigorously and disappeared out the door before Bob could blink, or realize that Claire wa standing there waiting for her pupil.

"I'm taking the class to the lunchroom now." she told him, with an even dozen children tangling around her knees like excited puppies. "Everything all right?" Bob made a bit of a face.

"Probably. I'll talk to you after school." Claire nodded, and vanished with her class.

* * *

 

Harry continued on with classes, blissfully unaware that his teacher and the school nurse regularly held secret dialogues about him. He was thus unaware when they called in Vernon and Petunia for a conference.

Claire and Bob sat down in the Parent-Teacher conference room with disarming smiles on their faces. Vernon and Petunia, on the other hand, were trying to look pleasant and failing miserably.

"Thank you for coming, Mister and Missus Dursley." Claire began, "Please take seat; this shouldn't take long." The Dursleys sat hesitantly.

"What's this all about?" Vernon asked.

"The boy's not getting himself in trouble, is he?" Petunia interjected. Claire blinked.

"No, not at all." she responded, mentally classifying them as "unpleasant". "Harry is a delight. He is quiet, does his work the first time he's told, and helps pick up the classroom when it's messy. He's very respectful. What I wanted to talk to you about is his tendency to come to school injured."

The Dursleys blinked in unison, then Petunia spoke up.

"I'm sorry! We should have put that in his medical chart. Harry bruises absurdly easily. He can kneel down to play in his room and he gets bruises. I'm half afraid to hug him for fear that he'll purple up. We took him to the doctor, but he didn't know why Harry bruises so easily. We try to make him be careful, but you know boys; always tripping over their feet in their hurry to get chores over and done with so they can play."

"And Harry's so skittish he falls even more." Vernon broke in, playing the conversation like he and Petunia had planned to if this came up. "His parents died in a car accident, you know, and he saw them die in the front seat. Dreadfully scarring for a little boy. He's been so jumpy ever since. We try but..." he tried to look remorseful.

Claire rummaged through her notes again, pondering this. "Ah, the last thing. He comes in such shabby clothes that he gets teased sometimes. There's a charity for that if..." Petunia interupted her.

"We couldn't accept charity, no!" she said, honestly aghast. "Dudley's friends pass down their clothes to him, and we pass them down to Harry when Dudley ougrows them, but it won't hurt him to wear shabby clothes. We wish we could afford better..." she lied blatantly, "but we cannot accept charity. One does have their pride."

Claire sighed, then smiled. "Well thank you for coming in." she said as sincerely as possible, shaking hands with each of them in turn. "Your time is greatly appreciated." Petunia looked constipated with her attempt to return a smile, and escaped out the door with Vernon right behind her.

Claire waited till they were long gone then sat down with a sigh and turned to Bob.

"What do you think?" Bob pondered her question for a long moment, then sighed.

"It's all plausible, but still...I have a gut feeling that we need to keep an eye on Harry." Claire nodded.

"Agreed."

* * *

 

Petunia always disappeared on Harry's birthday, taking Dudley with her for outings and treats. Vernon, if it were a weekend, would stay home "to watch telly", while Harry "cleaned".

In truth, on this, Harry's ninth birthday, as with every birthday since his sixth, Vernon got off the couch with a huge effort once Petunia and Dudley were well out the door, and summoned Harry up to the master bedroom.

Harry followed Vernon up the stairs resignedly. "Happy Birthday, Harry." he thought to himself, and went into the bedroom and began stripping: he knew Vernon liked to watch him. Today, Vernon was already half undressed himself, rather than watching and touching Harry for awhile before stripping. Harry bit back a sigh and went and sat by the bed. Vernon, now naked, with skin and drooping as his moustache, reached down and dragged Harry up on his lap, half-caressing him before he was settled.

"Petunia's frigid." Vernon began talking. Harry wondered if Vernon was even able to not talk during times like this. He talked to Harry as though a man driven to confess whenever he and Harry were alone in the bedroom.

"She doesn't like sex. Not like me and you. She's too busy. Too tired. Not like you. You're always ready, with your soft skin..." he trailed off as his fingers, slick with lube, were probing at Harry's anus. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to relax so it wouldn't hurt as much. It was no use hoping for no pain. It always hurt. Harry was so small, and his Uncle was large man: physically, in sexual appetite, and any penis was too big for a child.

Harry tried to roll onto his stomach when Vernon withdrew his fingers but Vernon pressed a hand on his chest, forcing him to stay on his back.

"Need to see." he huffed, already somewhat red faced from exertion. Harry bit back a cry as Vernon thrust inside him, sending shocks of pain up and down his body. Vernon did not seem to notice, head flung back as held Harry still with one hand, so the force of his thrusting didn't send the tiny nine year old into the headboard.

Harry closed his eyes and gripped the quilt with both hands, willing himself to be silent and not let the whimpers escape his lips. Vernon sped up, hoarse shouts escaping him till his movements became erratic and he sagged to his hands and knees over Harry. He pulled out, causing more pain to shoot through the boy's body, and lay next to him, one hand absently caressing Harry's completely limp penis.

"You're so good." Vernon said, yawning. "Such a good girl."

Harry was frozen, hurting, wanting to hide, and as always, confused. Girl? Girl? Why did Vernon constantly call him a girl? Harry kept himself immobile until Vernon waved a hand.

"Go shower, and get busy cleaning before Pet comes back." Harry nodded, gathered up his clothes, and fled to the shower, where he leaned into the hot spray, letting his tears finally escape.

* * *

 

"Get out." Harry looked up from his scrubbing of the floor and obediently started to sidle out of the kitchen.

"Party's in half an hour, and I don't want to see your face around here till ten, you hear?" Petunia went on, carefully wiping an invisible speck of dust off the table. Harry nodded, and fled out the door. As he went, he plucked the strange envelope off the table and bolted for the park, stuffing it into his shirt as he went.

He slowed to a walk as he reached the swingset, and sat down on it, wincing as his bottom complained at the pressure after an evening alone with Vernon, who seemed more and more attracted to Harry in the last year. He wiggled around, settling himself in a more comfortable position, and took the letter out, turning it over and over in his hands.

A letter, addressed to him! He had never had anything of the sort before. And it was addressed to his cupboard. How odd. He counted himself lucky that Vernon hadn't looked at the mail yet. No one could take this away from him. He hugged himself in glee. A letter! All for him!

Carefully, Harry slid a finger under the seal and broke it open.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.  
Yours sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress

Harry blinked in astonishment. A school wanted him? One with...witchcraft and witchery? Was that what he had done when he was running from Dudley and found himself on the roof? Harry turned it over in his hands to see a list of frankly, very odd things on the back. Where was he supposed to get them?

Harry blinked, and then it dawned on him. Mrs Figgs had once come back in to find Harry looking at a scrap book with moving pictures. She had taken it away quickly, muttering worriedly under her breath, and Harry had later doubted his memory that the pictures had been moving at all. But...what if Mrs Figgs was magical? What if she had an owl? Harry certainly didn't know where to find one.

Harry bounced to his feet and snuck back past Privet Drive to Wisteria Walk and Mrs Figgs, trying to avoid being spotted by any of the Dursleys.


	3. An Unexpected Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry learns more about his heritage in a day than he had known in his entire life previously. Additionally, Hedwig makes a reappearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It was pointed out to me that I didn't tag the last chapter for sexual abuse: I am so sorry for neglecting to add a trigger warning. However, that was the only chapter I have planned to write out a sexual assault, aside from possibly alluding to it, which I may do at some point in the future, and those I will tag. It is not fun to write those sorts of things, although necessary for the story I have planned out.

"Missus Figg!" Harry bounded up to her front door and tapped, gently, twice. Cats meowed inside, and soon the pattering of Mrs Figg's footsteps could be heard making their way to the door. Harry ducked his head, suddenly shy, as the petite, dark-haired woman opened the door and looked down at him.

"Hello, Harry." she said briskly, "Dursleys need me to watch you today?" she inquired. Harry shook his head.

"No ma'am." he replied. "Just that..." he paused, then let all his words come out in a burst. "I got a letter today that confuses me, but then I remembered all your pictures that moved, and I thought maybe you have an owl?" he thrust his Hogwarts letter up in her face. "And I really hope this is real. I could leave? For boarding school? I know it would only get worse at home once Dudley's gone to Smeltings, and I really want to go!"

Arabella Figg blinked once, then smiled. "As it happens, I do have an owl, Harry." she confided, ruffling his hair. "Come inside; we'll work up a proper response."

Harry beamed and followed her inside, casting a curious eye over the sitting room, and noting that nothing had changed from the last time he was there. Cats, a strong smell of cabbage, and shabby furniture: all standards of Arabella's home.

Arabella was making her way across the room, heading towards the stairs. She paused at the foot of them and raised an eyebrow at Harry, still loitering by the door.

"Come along then." she said, and Harry flushed, then scurried after her.

At the top of the carpeted stairwell, Mrs Figg fiddled with her keys, then finally withdrew a large, skeleton key and unlocked the door to their right. Harry followed her inside the room ― a study, he realised, covered top-to bottom with books and cat perches ― and blinked in astonishment as a painting moved and spoke.

"Afternoon, Arabella." the woman in question sighed a little.

"Good afternoon, Mother." she responded, sitting down at a large, battered roll-top desk.

"And who is this young man?" the painting cooed at Harry, who blanched slightly at being directly addressed by a portrait, but he rallied and made a little bow towards it.

"I'm Harry Potter." he introduced himself, feeling vaguely like he ought to be formal with this distinguished looking piece of sentient art. Arabella cut in as the painting tried to speak again.

"Mother, we're sending his acceptance letter to Hogwarts; can we chatter later?" The painting harrumphed and folded her arms.

"No time for your mother; I see." Arabella sighed even more heavily.

"After I spent my entire life caring for you and looking after you, despite your...deficiencies." Harry blinked.

"That's not nice!" he burst out. "Missus Figg is a nice lady, and you shouldn't be mean." he scolded. The painting tittered in astonishment, appeared to have a paint-flush in her cheeks, then subsided.

Arabella smiled at Harry and gestured for him to come to the desk.

"That was kind of you, Harry. Now here, let's write your letter." she pulled another chair up to her side of the desk.

"Now firstly," she began "In the Wizarding World, we use parchment instead of paper: here's some." she took a page from the top of a stack of unused parchment and gave it to Harry, who examined it minutely. "And instead of pens and pencils, we use quills." she motioned towards the quill and an inkbottle on the desk.

"Now here's how we write with it." she took Harry's hand, wrapped it around the delicate quill properly, and took his wrist to demonstrate dipping it in the inkwell. "Be sure that you only dip the tip and don't get too much, or you'll have inkblots." she admonished. Harry nodded studiously, his face a mask of concentration.

"Now," Arabella went on, "tilt the paper sideways a bit, yes, like that, and hold your hand a bit above the parchment so you don't smear it...yes, like so.. and write!"

Harry paused, hand frozen above the page. "But what shall I write?" he inquired. Arabella looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Well, I never attended Hogwarts, so I can't tell you what I wrote, but address it to Professer Minerva McGonagall and simply say that you have recieved your letter and plan on attending.

Harry nodded, and bent to writing, slowly, and as carefully as he could. Despite his best efforts, he dropped a few ink blots and smeared a few letters with the hand he was using to hold the page still.

 _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_  
_Professor Minerva McGonagall_

_My name is Harry Potter, and I am writing to tell you that I will be attending Hogwarts this fall. Thank you for the invitation._

He paused. "How do I get to Diagon Alley? How will I know where to purchase my things?"

"Well," mused Arabella, "I could take you, but a professor could tell you better what school will be like and what you're likely to need. Perhaps you should ask for a guide to come answer your questions." Harry nodded and bent back to the parchment.

_I don't know how to get to Diagon Alley, and I have a lot of questions about the Wizarding World, so could you send someone to help me? I would really appreciate it._

"Is that polite enough?" he looked anxiously at Mrs Figg.

"I do think so, my dear. Now just sign it, and we'll send it off with Hector."

 _Sincerely,_  
_Harry James Potter_

"Well done!" Mrs Figg picked up the letter and dangled it in the air for a few minutes and blew on it to let the ink dry. Then she handed it back to Harry with a piece of string. "Now roll it up, not too loosely, yes, and" she whistled piercingly, then a thin, brown owl landed on her shoulder, "we tie it to Hector's leg, like so, yes, and now we simply tell him," she looked at the owl and addressed him directly: "Please take this to Minerva McGonagall." and back to Harry as the owl flew silently through the open study window, "and it's done!"

Harry was awed. "Does everyone use owls? Why didn't you tell me you were magical? Were my parents magical? The Dursleys aren't, are they?" he looked aghast at the thought of his relations coming with him to Hogwarts. Arabella laughed a little.

"Yes, everyone uses owls. And I'm not properly magical, dear, I'm a Squib, which means I was born into a magical family, but I can't use magic. Your parents were indeed magical! Your father was from a old wizarding family, but your mother was muggleborn. And the Dursleys are the farthest thing from magical there is." Harry pursed his lips.

"What's muggleborn?"

"Muggle is the wizarding world for non-magical, dear." she explained, and Harry appeared to accept this explanation for the odd word.

"Then..." he chewed on his lip, "Why didn't you tell me you were magical?" he reiterated. "Every time I came over you made it...boring." he looked down and blushed. Arabella sighed.

"I had to be sure that you didn't enjoy yourself too much, or the Dursleys wouldn't let you come." she tried to explain, "They're really the worst sort of Muggles and I needed to keep an eye on you for Dumbledore and..."

"He's the headmaster, right?" Harry interrupted, looking upset, "Why did you have to keep an eye on me for him? In the muggle world, soliciters decide where kids go after their parents die. Is he a soliciter?" he thought of his friend, Emma, whose papa died, and whose momma had left him when she was little, and how distressed she was that the court might make her go live with her staid and boring Grandmama.

"It's the same way in the wizarding world, mostly." Arabella answered him, "but there were extenuating circumstances, and you had to be kept safe. Your Aunt and Uncle's house were the safest place for you, besides Hogwarts." Harry was tearing up now.

"But why? They hate me! All I do is work, and I can never play, and everyone hits me, and they're mean! And I'm so afraid of Vernon. He...scares me." Harry trailed off, blushing and trying to keep from sobbings. Arabella looked aghast.

"I had no idea it was that bad." she apologized. "I thought, I hoped, I suppose, that you just had the outside chores and Dudley had the inside ones." Harry snorted.

"Dudley, chores? All he does is watch video games. I even clean his room for him." Arabella tsked.

"Spoiled child." she said. "But I'm afraid you do have to stay there. Death Eaters..."

"What's a death eater?" Harry interrupted.

"Followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, dear."

"Who is that?" Arabella looked about ready to fling herself out of the second storey window.

"...how about I start from the beginning, hmm?" she inquired, and Harry settled himself for a long explanation.

"Around nineteen-fifty, a man who called himself Vol...Vol...oh hang it." Arabella wrote down the name  _Voldemort_  on a piece of paper.

"Volde-mpppfhph!"

"Don't say it!" Arabella said vehemently. "And I'll explain why in a moment.

"As I was saying, a man became active, known only by that name. A lot of people who hate muggles and squibs were following him, but we didn't know who any of them were, because they all wore black robes and identical masks. They were awful: terrorizing towns, shops, killing families who had muggle ancestors, and attacking anyone who said  _His_ name.

Harry couldn't help himself and interjected: "How did they know when someone would say Voldem-mmphf!" Missus Figgs clapped her hand over his mouth to block the forbidden name again. 

" _He_ put a Taboo on  _His_ name." she said, somewhat secretively, though they were alone with the portraits. "Anytime someone said _His_ name, _He_ would know, and send the Death Eaters to punish them."

Harry nodded, eyes wide and frightened.

"Before long it was an outright war." she continued. "That's when Dumbledore started the Order of the Phoenix. We were banded together to fight, since the Magical Law Enforcement was failing. There was so much corruption. Death Eaters who had rank, and were in the Ministry, and frankly, we were losing.

"Then, Dumbledore had the Longbottoms and your parents go into hiding. All he said was there was a prophecy, and for the first time in thirty years, we had hope! Alice Longbottom and your mother were both pregnant at the time, and you were born a day after Neville Longbottom. Everyone loved you two so much: Frank and James were both proud as peacocks of their sons, and whenever it was safe enough, they would bring you two to play with each other, though at first all you did was lie side by side and coo, dear.

"Then, on Halloween, 1981, the Order got a summons, and Dumbledore told us that you had defeated Voldemort, but no one knew how. All we knew was that James and Lily were dead, and you had survived the Killing Curse, and that's how you got the scar on your forehead.

"We were all so excited that even while the Ministry was rounding up the Death Eaters who were scrambling after You-Know-Who died, we dropped our guard, and three Death Eaters found the Longbottoms and tortured them, trying to find out what we had done with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Their minds broke, and they've been in the hospital ever since. Now Neville lives with his grandmother. He's your god-brother, you know. Alice was your godmother."

Harry blinked, trying to absorb all of this.

"So why did Dumbledore send me here?" he looked mutinous.

"We were all afraid that the remaining Death Eaters would kill you in revenge. He hid you with your mother's sister for protection, such as it was. No one would think to look for the famous Boy-Who-Lived in a muggle town." Arabella explained.

Harry was still upset. "But they hate me! Why did I go live with my godfather?"

Arabella's face dropped, and she looked near to tears herself. "Your godfather was the one who told He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named where to find you." she said, sounding like she was on the verge of bursting into tears. "He was the secret-keeper for your parents, and he sold them out. The Aurors caught him the next day, after he killed one of your parents' closest friends, Peter Pettigrew, and now he's in Azkaban - that's our prison, dear - for the rest of his life."

Harry started sniffling, then full-out crying. "Why would he do that?" he asked between sobs. Arabella wrapped her arms around the boy.

"I don't know, dear. I really don't know."

* * *

Two days later, Harry was in the library, sitting around a table in the kids' section with his two remaining friends: Eloise and Jana. Emma had left when she was six to live with her grandmama after her papa died and her mama didn't want her, and Paige's family had moved for her mama's job. Eloise, Jana, and Harry were still friends with each other, and still at the same primary school.

"I really want to go," Harry continued, wringing his hands as he talked to them, "But I'm afraid. This is the boarding school that my parents went to: what if everyone is mad at me because they're dead?"

His friends made sympathetic noises. "They won't think it's your fault!" Jana interjected boldly. "Your parents died protecting you in the car accident. I'm sure everyone will love you there." she rubbed his shoulder soothingly. Harry blinked away tears.

"Thank you." he said hoarsely, then, "I'm going to miss you so much! Can I write to you?" the girls exchanged glances.

"I don't think so." Eloise said hesitantly. "Ever since your aunt and uncle talked to our parents, we get in trouble if they find out we're seeing you. If you write they might get even more mad."

"But we'll see you in the summers! They can't keep us apart for long." Jana promised, holding out her pinky. Harry laughed, tremblingly and held out his pinky to join the others.

"Pinky swear." they chorused, and started giggling quietly.

Harry leaned back and sighed. "I'm so glad you're my friends." he said quietly.

"Me too! said Eloise, bouncing in her seat: Eloise nearly always bounced. "Even if it is odd that you don't like hanging out with the boys."

Harry shrugged. "The boys only play boring games, and they don't like to sit around and talk as much. We play games  _and_  talk! It's much more fun." he smiled. "Besides...all the boys believe Dudley that I'm stupid and ugly, and they don't want to play with me anyway."

Jana looked incensed. "He's still doing that?! That's so...so mean!" she burst out, getting a glance from a librarian that caused her to subside rapidly. Eloise stood, and bounced away from the table.

"Let's get books!" Jana and Harry perked up. "Yeah! I want some comics this time, and I want to read  _Howl's Moving Castle_  again."

The girls agreed, talking over each other, that they should read  _Howl's Moving Castle_  together again. They all loved Sophie and how she was so cool, even when she was a fake old lady.

Jana and Eloise checked out all the books, handed Harry's selections to him once they were outside, and they headed to the park to read. Harry stopped, halfway down the street, panicking.

"Oh, what time is it? I have to get back and make supper!" he cried. Jana checked her purple watch.

"Four pm." she said glumly, and Harry tore off down the street after shoving his books back in their arms.

"See you later! Gotta go!" he yelled over his shoulder, running pell-mell for home, and a certain punishment.

He rounded the last corner before Privet Drive and slowed to a brisk walk; it angered Petunia to see him running around like a "vagabond" as she put it, and lowering their neighbors' opinions of them. He'd just gotten to the drive of his house, steps lagging with stress, when he heard his Aunt screeching.

"You can't take the boy! He has work to do!"

Harry bounded up the steps and into the living room and was faced with an amusing picture. His irate aunt, red-faced and more frightened that angry looking was facing down a tall, thin older woman with hair tightly pulled into a bun, a tall, pointed hat, and what looked like a closely fitting bathrobe.

Petunia saw him coming in the door and rounded on her nephew.

"Into the kitchen, now! You'll get what's coming to you later for being so tardy." she hissed, and the older woman cleared her throat.

"Hello, Harry. No need to go into the kitchen. Your aunt and I were just discussing you, and I think that you ought to be present."

Harry vacillated at the entryway to the kitchen as Petunia raised her voice again.

"Not. Happening!" she shrieked.

"I assure you, Missus Dursley, that it  _is_  happening. Mister Potter," she turned to the boy, who was creeping into the living room. "How often do you cook?" Harry twirled a toe in the carpet.

"Every meal, unless I'm at school." he said shyly. The woman looked displeased.

"And what other chores do you do?" Harry ignored his aunt who was trying to insist that he only had to tidy his room.

"I clean all the bedrooms but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's," he began, "and the bathroom, and the kitchen, and the sitting room, and the entryway." the older woman's eyes were severe, and growing more so by the minute. Harry went on. "I mow the lawn, keep the flowerbeds tidy, and fix things in the house when they're broken. I pretty much do everything." he shrugged, "Uncle Vernon's rubbish with tools and he works so much trying to support us, especially me, since I'm a burden, that it's the least I can do to help around the place." he parrotted his relation's words to him.

The woman looked apoplectic and rounded on Harry's aunt. "Outrageous! I've never heard such a thing! You make the boy do everything in the house? No wonder his marks are poor at his primary school!"

Harry interjected, shyly. "My marks are poor because I can't make Dudley look bad by cheating and having better marks than him." Petunia raced across the room and clamped a hand over his mouth.

"He doesn't know what he's saying! The boy always lies." she shook Harry, enraged. "Go to your cupboard."

"Ex _cuse_  me, madam." The woman loomed over Petunia. "Did you just say  _cupboard_?" Petunia quailed.

"It's...just that...the boys have nicknames for their rooms. Dudley's is the Nest and Harry's is the Cupboard."

The woman did not look convinced. She flicked the stick in her hand - Harry hadn't noticed it before, and Petunia flew into the sofa and was apparently stuck there, as despite her shouts and wriggling, was unable to move.

"Silencio." the woman ordered, and Petunia was abruptly silent, despite her mouth continuing to move in rage.

The woman blinked, and seemed to come to herself as Harry tugged on her sleeve.

"Excuse me," he said politely, "You know who I am, but who might you be?"

The woman smiled, and her face was transformed. "I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Mister Potter," she informed him. "I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts."

"Oh." Harry chewed his lips. "What's Transfiguration?"

Minerva flicked her wand again and the coffee table turned into a pig. Petunia thrashed harder against the couch until Minerva flicked her wand again and it changed back.

"Why the art of changing one thing into another." she answered belatedly. Harry's eyes shone.

"And I can learn to do that?" he asked.

"If you study hard and pay attention in class you can, Mister Potter." Professor McGonagall told him. "Now, show me your  _cupboard_." she pronounced the last word with extreme disdain, and Harry's shoulders sagged.

"It's...over here." he whispered. "I sleep in it because I'm a freak, and freaks don't deserve rooms." he said it as quietly as he could, but Minerva caught the sentence with cat-like hearing. She stopped, and brought Harry to a stop with a hand on his shoulder, and tugged till he faced her. She crouched to his level.

"Harry." she looked solemn. "You are not a freak at all. You are a very special little boy, and your relatives are idiots for not recognizing that. Anyone in our world would have been proud to adopt you after your parents died, but you had to be placed here, for your own protection. It's a pity that we didn't check on you, but Albus said it was important that we not come and potentially lead those who might wish to harm you to your doorstep."

She stood, sighed, and suddenly looked much older. "I regret that now, but from now on I will try to keep your safe from your relatives as well as from your parents' enemies." she shook her head. "I ought to have had more foresight. What a Gryffindor I am." then, "Harry, I believe that you were going to show me your cupboard?"

Minerva was pale and angry once Harry showed her his "room", and told her he'd been in there as long as he could remember. She was further incensed when, in response to her questioning, Harry revealed that he rarely ate more than a meal a day, and not a full one, at that. She graduated from angry to incensed when he told her that his relatives told everyone who tried to be his friends that he was a troubled boy with anger issues who killed every pet they tried to get, despite the fact that none of the Dursleys had ever had, or wanted, a pet. Around the time Harry shuffled his feet and confessed that everyone in the family hit him, Minerva blew.

She whirled, and fairly flew back into the living room, storming over to Petunia and standing over her.

"We will talk more fully when I return, but rest assured, we will talk. Have your husband and child here in two hours so I can lay down the rules of the house. Now go clean out your piggish son's "second bedroom" for Harry before I do something I will only slightly regret. If it isn't completely cleaned out by the time I return,  _you_ will be the one who regrets."

And with that, Minerva McGonagall freed Petunia with a series with flicks and gestures, and stormed out of the house, trailing Harry after her.

Once on the lawn, Minerva twirled her wand over herself saying Amicula Ad Vestibus, and her long robes shone, then transformed into a pleated skirt, blouse, and a tartan coat. She held out her arm to Harry.

"Now then," she said briskly, "We need to get you some proper things. I assume that all of your clothes look like that...? Yes, then we must get you some nice muggle clothes. I will sponsor the expedition, and you can pay me back from the money your parents left you once we've gone to Diagon Alley." Harry looked astonished.

"Thank you professor!" he said with glee, then in confusion, "My parents left me money? My aunt said they were drunks and wastrels who had nothing." Minerva swelled up.

"Have nothing? Harry, your parents were quite well off, and left you everything. You have more than enough to pay for your schooling, school things, and quite a few years after graduation. Now, come along. This is Apparation, and I'll be taking you in a Side-Along Apparation. It feels quite odd, and you may feel sick. Now, ready?" And she whirled them away in a loud crack.

Harry stumbled away from her, holding his stomach as they landed in the corner of an alley. Minerva patted his head compassionately as he got himself back together, and then led him out, stowing her wand in a tight-fitting sleeve.

"Come along." she said briskly - and Harry thought that she must be brisk nearly all the time - and led him onto the street, and across the way to a shop with children's clothes displayed in the window.

"Where are we?" Harry asked, trotting after her, head craning around to see the sights.

"Muggle London." Minerva answered him, opening the door to the shop and ushering him inside.

Once there, she eyeballed him up and down, and proceeded to pull armfuls of clothes off the rack and escorted him to a changing room.

"Tell me which of these size of trousers fit better, then tell me so I can get you the next size up. You'll need it to grow into over the year. Same with the shirts, now."

Harry slid out of his oversized clothes and started trying on trousers, calling out to Minerva once he knew the size she wanted. He pulled on a dark gray shirt and blinked at himself in the mirror. Immdiately, he bounded out to Minerva.

"Professor! Can I have this one? Please?" he asked, twisting the hem in his hands. Minerva's eyes softened.

"Certainly. Change back into your clothes and come help me pick out more in your size." Harry nodded, and did as she said, joining Minerva at the racks and pointing at the things he wanted. He was mortified when she picked up a few packs of pants for him, but seized a package of brightly colored socks happily.

"These look so happy!" he exclaimed. Minerva chuckled.

"You may have them, but you also need black trouser socks to wear with your uniform." she told him, picking up a pack of those as well. "And I think we have all we need...she mused, as she added a few sweaters and a warm coat to the pile. "Yes, I do believe that is all."

Harry led the way to the counter, beaming brilliantly as the cashier rung up the purchase. Minerva paid for it in cash, and jotted down the sum on a piece of parchment, although she did use the muggle pen sitting by the cash register.

"Where is the bathroom?" Minerva inquired of the cashier, and was directed to the hallway, where she stopped outside the men's bathroom. Harry blinked at her. Minerva opened the bags and pulled out trousers, trainers, and the pack of fresh underwear.

"Pick out a shirt and a sweater and go change, Mister Potter." Minerva told him. "Now that you have new things I see no need for you to wear the shabby ones. Just put everything you're wearing in the rubbish bin. You needn't ever again wear Dudley's hand-me-downs." Harry ducked his head and blushed.

"Thank you, Professor." Minerva's face was gentle.

"You're very welcome: now run along. I'll wait for you here."

Harry selected a long sleeved gray shirt with blue stripes, took the rest of the pile of Minerva and vanished into the bathroom for a handful of moments. He emerged looking utterly changed. He had washed his face and smoothed down his hair, and his clothes, while slightly large to account for growth, looked much better on him than the shabby, overlarge ones of before.

"You look like a handsome young man!" Minerva praised him, seeing him light up and cursing herself again for leaving him in a loveless environment, and took his hand, heading for the door.

Once outside, Minerva took him down the alley again, looked both directions carefully, and tapped the bags with her wand. Before Harry's astonished eyes, the bags shrunk to the size of golf balls, and Minerva stowed them in her tartan coat's pockets. Minerva smiled at his awe.

"'Tis a simple thing to do." she told him. "To unshrink them, one must simply tap them with one's wand."

"Can we go get mine next?" he begged, and Minerva smiled again wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

"Certainly." she said, and Apparated them away in a whirl of sound and blurriness.

They landed outside a shabby storefront which had the words  _The Leaky Cauldron_  across the top. Minerva adopted her teaching voice.

"This is the entrance from the muggle world to the Diagon Alley, Mister Potter." she informed him, taking him towards the door. "Many people idolize you for defeating You-Know-Who, but I'll try to keep them away. You ought to be allowed to grow up like a normal boy." she punctuated her sentence with a comforting squeeze to his hand and strode inside. A bald, stoop-shouldered man was at the door and greeted them.

"Hullo Minerva." he said, "Bringing a muggle born in to show them around?" Minerva took his hand and shook it.

"Good to see you, Tom." she responded. "I'm taking this young man shopping for his Hogwarts things."

Tom's eyes widened. "Is that..."

"Shopping. Normally." Minerva said sternly, and Tom subsided.

"Yes, yes, of course." he said, stepping out of the way, but continued to eye Harry with something like awe. Harry, profoundly uncomfortable at the attention, sidled under Minerva's now-transformed-back-to-robes sleeve and tried not to look like he was hiding. Minerva steered him through the pub to the wall and tapped the bricks.

"This is how you get in." she told him. "You'll be able to do it once you have a wand, but you mustn't forget which brick." she said, as the wall slid apart and revealed a bustling street, lined with shops.

Harry's eyes widened till they appeared as large as his glasses. His head darted from side to side as they walked through the alley, trying to take everything in at once. Merchants on the street handed out samples of wiggling, colorful substances that passerbys put in their mouths and chewed with relish. Devices whirled and spun; animals pressed against the windows of what looked like a menagerie, and people of every shape and size dressed in fantastical clothes strode here and there.

"It's quite a site, isn't it?" Minerva asked, humor in her voice as she watched Harry just about dislocate his neck to watch owls flying out of a window.

"Yes." Harry breathed, stumbling over cobblestones, for once no longer clinging to her hand. Minerva stopped in front of a tall building; marble and height warred for dominance in the imposing structure, and across the top Harry read  _Gringotts Bank_  in gold lettering. Minerva turned to Harry, capturing his attention.

"Goblins run this bank, yes, real goblins, Mister Potter." she said, seeing his astonishment. "They are prickly and imposing, but treat them with respect and never, ever try to steal anything, and they won't harm you."

Harry nodded with a gulp, looking a little apprehensive. Minerva withdrew a small key from her pocket and handed it to the boy.

"This is your vault key: you musn't lose it, for it's difficult to get another." Harry nodded again, then went pensive.

"Why did you have it?" he asked. Minerva blinked.

"Headmaster Dumbledore gave it to me."

"Why did  _he_  have it?" Harry asked, inquisitively. Minerva looked a little distracted.

"One of your parents must have asked him to look after it if something happened to them." she said, looking dissatisfied with her own response. Harry accepted that, tucked the key into the pocket of his new trousers, and followed Minerva into the building between the two armed goblins on either side of the entryway.

An encounter with a gruff goblin, an exhilarating ride on the tracks, and a confusing situation where Harry needed gold but had no place to put it later, the Professor and Harry left the bank with a new undectable expansion charm on his sweater pocket filled with galleons. Minerva spent several minutes drilling Harry on Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons, then took him to a store advertising "Bags, Trunks, and Junk", in which he got a proper, internally expanded bag, and a proper school trunk.

With the same patience as she had displayed the rest of the day, the Professor escorted Harry throughout the Alley, helping him to select all his school supplies, let him get extra books that Harry found interesting - as well as suggesting others that she thought would be useful for him, and hurried Ollivander along when he was on the verge of getting stuck in philosophizing rut.

Last of all, they went to Madam Malkins for...

" _More_  clothes?" Harry asked, slightly petulantly. Tired and overwhelmed with all the newness, the last thing he wanted to do was try on  _more_  clothes."

"Yes, Mister Potter." Minerva responded crisply, a touch of annoyance in her tone. "But this is our last stop, unless you would like to get a toad, cat, or owl to bring to Hogwarts with you."

Harry clambered up onto the stool at Madam Malkin's instructions and held his arms out for the measuring tape.

"Which is best?" he inquired. Minerva gave it some thought.

"Toads aren't popular anymore and can't do much anyway. Merlin knows they can't particularly be snuggled. Cats require a decent amount of maintenance, and are sometimes fickle companions if you choose one rather than letting one choose you. Owls are generally quite loyal, even affectionate, and can be used to send letters."

Harry chewed his lip and considered this. "Maybe an owl, unless a cat really wants me. I'd like to be able to send letters whenever I'd like." he concluded.

Minerva allowed that this was sensible, and gathered up the robes from Mm Malkin and gave them to Harry to put in his trunk.

"Then we shall go to Eylop's Emporium, then back to your home where I shall have a chat with your relatives."

Harry nodded in acquiescence, though his stomach was in knots at the prospect of facing his no doubt enraged Aunt and Uncle.

He was so consumed in his anxiety that he hardly noticed when they got inside the Emporium. The first thing to catch his attention nearly panicked him at first: a large, snowy owl had flown off her perch to land gently on his shoulder.

"Heh...Hello, owl." Harry said, reaching up to gently pet the owl's head, which made a soft barking sound and nuzzled his cheek with its beak. Harry's eyes softened and he looked up at Minerva pleadingly.

"Can I have this one, Professor?" Minerva smiled.

"It looks as though she wouldn't give us a choice if we refused!" Harry hurried up to the shopkeep and asked the price. The shopkeep pondered, then named a price which had Minerva casting a gimlet eye on him.

"Oh..hello Professor." the weedy looking twenty-something year old stammered. "I...I meant, some people might try to charge you thirty galleons. Here, we wouldn't...certainly not...charge an unfair price. That'll be twenty galleons." he was visibly wilting under Minerva's gaze by the end of spiel.

Harry happily counted out twenty galleons as Minerva said, with a steely tone "And that price will, of course, come with a cage and some food." The shopkeep wilted further.

"Cer...certainly." then he took the galleons and fled to the back, emerging with a shiny new cage and a sack of what looked like rats.

"In stasis, so they won't rot." Minerva explained to Harry, shrunk the cage and bag, and deposited them in Harry's trunk.

She escorted him back through the  _Leaky Cauldron_ , glaring at anyone who tried to approach Harry with a fawning expression, and apparated them back to Privet Drive as soon as they were through the pub.

Harry landed, far more gracefully this time, on the pavement next to Minerva, and sighed heavily, looking at the house. Minerva squeezed his shoulder.

"Courage." she told him, steel in her tone. "I will be with you." he nodded, doubtful of her ability to protect him after she had gone, and trailed after her to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are pure motivation to authors. Drop a line and spur me on to new writing heights!


	4. Interest and Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry deals with his life changes as he has dealt with his entire life so far: adapt. He's even rather enjoying himself.

Minerva McGonagall strode into the house as though it was her own home. Harry, an odd mixture of utterly confident and completely terrified, followed her.

In the living room, Vernon was watching the telly, while Dudley and Petunia were talking harshly in a corner. No sooner had the newcomers appeared in the doorway, than all three Dursleys arrayed themselves defensively side by side, and faced off against the Professor and Harry.

"You're not welcome here." Vernon growled, as Dudley held up a crucifix looking bored, and Petunia splashed water from a small glass vial in front of them. Minerva raised an eyebrow.

"Holy water and the totem of a dead man will hardly frighten me into leaving." she declared in a thicker scottish burr than she had been using earlier.

"Leave!" Petunia demanded, voice cracking at the top of her screech. Minerva took one step forward: all the Dursleys backed up into the sofa.

"Sit." she commanded, taking another step forward, and the trio took another stumbling step back and fell into the couch. Minerva let a smile grace her lips and the Dursleys shuddered.

"Very good." Minerva praised, taking a seat on the edge of a wooden-armed chair. "You can be reasonable. Now let me explain a few things to you. Harry will keep his bedroom clean, as well as working in the garden. Those will be his only chores. You will give him the same food as you: three meals a day, and he will eat at the table with you. You will not insult him, you will not touch him, you will not take his new school things from him, and you will not impede his movements." She paused and cast a gimlet eye over the family. "That means you will not lock him in any room, or out of the house. I will come fetch him on the first of September to return to Hogwarts.

Petunia rallied and gained a modicum of bravery. "You can't enforce that! Try to magic us and we'll call the police!" Minerva settled more comfortably into her chair.

"Ach, aye." she agreed. "You'll call the police and tell them that a  _magic_  woman cast a  _spell_  on you to make you be kind to your nephew."

The sarcasm dripping from her tone wiped away the last of Petunia's bravado and she clenched her fists, but said nothing in return.

"In fact," Minerva continued, "I will be casting a  _geas_  on you."

Petunia shrieked, Vernon blanched, and Dudley perked up. "A gase?" he asked. "Mummy, don't let them hurt me!"

 _Apparently_ , thought Harry,  _Dudley had been briefed on the "terrors" of magic._

Minerva raised her wand and twirled it, speaking in a low tone as light streamers erupted from the tip of her wand and settled around the Dursleys:

_"Nam Harry James Potter: ut adloquio stillabunt tantum ab ore tuo: honestum sit ut daret tibi amicus; iter impediat, aut furto sunt; medullam panis ad labia: hoc geas pono tibi."_ _1._

She finished, looking drained, and leaned back into the chair. Petunia surged to her feet.

"What did you do? You little..." she gagged and grabbed at her throat, and settled for looking murderously at her nephew.

"Ah, ah, ah," Minerva tsked. "The geas reads intention. Before long you won't even be able to speak with hostility  _about_  Harry. These sorts of incantations are fueled by and respond to intention from the caster and recipient, and I intended as I cast it that you would not be able to harm him in any way."

She rose and gestured for Harry to follow her. "Let's furnish your bedroom." she said, raising her voice on the last two words, and strode up the stairs, disdaining the handrail. Once inside, she surveyed the completely empty room with a satisfied expression.

"At least I frightened her enough to do as I said." she said, then sighed. "And now we must get furnishings." she realized, talking aloud to herself, then stood straight and snapped her fingers.

"Wallace!" she called, and moments later, with a pop, a slim, tiny creature with huge eyes and ears stood before her, clad in a dish-towel toga.

"Mistress called?" the elf asked, as Harry's eyes bugged out staring at it.

"Yes, Wallace. I want you to fetch an extra bed, dresser, and desk from the storage rooms at Hogwarts. Bring them here and set them up for Harry. You will retrieve them on the first of September at noon, and bring them back again on the last day of school." Wallace bowed, and vanished with a pop. Minerva turned back to Harry.

"I must take my leave now; I have many duties to which I must attend. Mister Potter:" she extended her hand to shake his. Harry took it hesitantly.

"Thanks for everything, Professor!" Harry said earnestly. Minerva smiled at him.

"No child ought be treated as you have been." Minerva told him. Harry sat down on his trunk and looked pensive.

"What should I do with the summer?" he asked, "If I don't have chores, I won't have anything to do." Minerva gestured towards his trunk.

"Why not read?" she asked, "You have plenty of books, and some of them may answer questions about the wizarding world which you may have. In addition, your godbrother may enjoy getting a letter from you. I'm sure you would like to attend Hogwarts with at least one friend." Harry brightened.

"Thanks Professor!" he exclaimed, as a series of pops sounded and an entire troop of house elves appeared, holding tiny versions of the furniture for which Minerva had requested. Minerva watched his awed expression with a smile as the elves expanded the furniture and moved them to the sides of the room. One of the elves had gone above and beyond the call of duty and brought curtains, a rug, and a dirty clothes hamper. Minerva chuckled.

"The Hogwarts elves are zealous in their desire to serve." she told him, then raised a finger to stop his barrage of questions.

"I truly do not have the time tonight to answer your undoubtedly myriads of queries, Mister Potter, but perhaps another day. Feel free to owl me with any concerns you have."

And with that, Minerva McGonagall swept out the door. Harry sagged onto the bed as the house elves swarmed his trunk in a bid to be the first to put something away and marveled at its softness and size.

"Best. Day. Ever." he smiled up at the ceiling, then yawned, jaw-splittingly. He had just about fallen asleep, when an elf crept over to the bed and pulled an afghan over him.

"Good night Mister Harry Potter sir." Wallace whispered before all the elves popped away as silently as they could.

* * *

 

Harry was woken up a few hours later by a banging on the door.

"Come for supper." an annoyed voice ordered. Harry blinked back into consciousness and noted the sun just barely resting on the horizon.

"Yes Aunt Petunia." he mumbled, and staggered out of bed and opened the door. Petunia was already halfway down the stairs. He followed her to the kitchen and began reaching for the fridge.

"What do you think you're doing?" Petunia demanded, hands on her hips. "The food is ready." She curled her lip in disgust at his astonished face, sleepy brain not yet caught up to the new reality of his situation, before he nodded and went to the table, cautiously sitting down; fighting the impulse to hide on the floor while the Dursleys ate, as was previously the norm.

Petunia sat down, studiously ignoring him, while Vernon and Dudley were glaring daggers.

"Serve yourself, buh..." Petunia choked a little on the geas, glared at him again, and pronounced savagely, " _Harry_."

"Thanks you, Aunt Petunia." Harry said as politely as possible, and realized that he was quite enjoying her helplessly angry responses to his politeness. He fought back a grin as he reached for the mashed potatoes and served himself a generous amount. Vernon clenched his fists as Harry continued to pile food on his plate, till he had some of every dish in neat portions. Continuing with his passive aggressive polite behavior, he waited till everyone was served before digging into the food. His first bite was rapturous.

 _Hot food, not spoiled, and seasoned_. He mused, tastebuds and stomach approving.  _This is wonderful._  Minerva and her intervention into his life reached near deified levels in his mind as he happily polished off his plate, though his stomach was near to bursting by the time he speared the last green bean and forked it into his mouth. He waited until the Dursleys were done before piping up, "Thanks Aunt Petunia! It was delicious." then got up, inwardly chortling over the expression on her face, and returned to his room. He had a letter to write.

His new owl, now on a stand by the window, barked at him as he came in. He raised an eyebrow at the sound. "I thought owls hooted." he said aloud, and could have sworn that the owl gave him a dirty look at that. She fluttered off his stand and landed on his desk where the papers that Eyelop's Emporium had given him rested. Harry picked them up and petting her head gently.

"You're awfully smart, aren't you?" he asked her, when he saw that the papers were about her species, habits, and needs. He settled at the desk and scanned the page for the section on owl sounds.

"The Snowy Owl is virtually silent during nonbreeding seasons. The typical call of the male is a loud, harsh, grating bark, while the female has a similar higher pitched call. During the breeding season males have a loud, booming "hoo, hoo" given as a territorial advertisement or mating call. Females rarely hoot. Its alarm call is a guttural "krufff-guh-guh-guk". When excited it may emit a loud "hooo-uh, hooo-uh, hooo-uh, wuh-wuh-wuh". Other sounds are dog-like barks, rattling cackles, shrieks, hissing, and bill-snapping." he read aloud. "Huh. I guess owls don't just hoot."

The owl clackled at him and fluttered back to her perch. Harry slid a piece of parchment over to the middle of the desk and hesitantly picked up one of the quills lying in a neat bunch.

"Hold it between my thumb and index finger...dip a little...don't drop an ink blot..." he concentrated on doing it exactly as Missus Figg had shown him, and beamed brilliantly when his first quill strokes left even, only slightly shaky writing.

 _"Neville Longbottom_ " he wrote at the top, chewing his lip with concentration.

_"My name is Harry Potter, and Professor McGonagall, who teaches Transfiguration at Hogwarts, told me that we were godbrothers. Your mom, Alice, was my godmother. I'm really sorry about your parents. I hope you like living with your Grandmother more than I like my relatives._

_"I was hoping that we could write this summer, so we could start Hogwarts with at least one friend, and since our parents were friends maybe we will be too._

_"I guess I'll tell you a little bit about myself, and if you want to write back you can tell me about you. I am eleven years old, and the first time I found out about magic was when I got my Hogwarts letter. Professor McGonagall came to my house and helped me get my school supplies. I'm really looking forward to reading all the books I got. Earlier I flipped through_ History of Magic _and I thought it looked really interesting._

_"I like to cook sometimes, and play with my two friends, but they're muggles, so I can't tell them about magic. We play hand-clap games and read books together or play in the park._

_"What do you like to do for fun?_

_"Harry Potter_

Harry regarded his relatively ink-blot free letter with satisfaction, rolled it up, and used the band that had been on the quills to bind the letter to the owl's leg. She had flown to the back of his chair as soon as he stopped writing and held out her name.

"Thanks, girl." he said, then blinked. "I guess I should find a name for you. Ow!" he cried, as the owl nipped his ear, but then realized it hadn't actually hurt. "When you get back we'll talk about it." he promised her, feeling not at all odd for talking to an owl, and feeling odd that he didn't feel odd about it. He shook his head to get rid of the strange feeling and turned back to her.

"That goes to Neville Longbottom." he told her, and carried her on his wrist to the window. She launched off his list and vanished around the corner of the house. Harry watched her go with a smile.

"A godbrother." he mused, then, "I wonder if that's like a real brother? I've always wanted one..." he trailed off, lost in his memories of a day when he was seven.

* * *

 

_Harry sat bolt upright in his cupboard as crying filled the house. Dudley, he realised, and very quickly, he heard his Aunt's footsteps pattering to his cousin's room._

_"What's wrong, Dudders?" he heard her ask in a cooing voice. A few more sobs then his cousin answered._

_"I had a bad dream." he said._

_"What was it about? Tell Mummy." Petunia said._

_"I...I dreamed that you didn't love me anymore and made me sleep in the cupboard with Harry!" Dudley started crying again. Petunia gasped in horror._

_"No, no, no, Duddykins." she reassured him. "I will always love you, because we're family, and families always love each other."_

_"But," Dudley sounded only partially reassured, "But he's my cousin and we don't love him."_

_"Of course not." Petunia answered, "He's a freak, and we don't love freaks."_

_"What if I'm a freak?" Dudley asked._

_"You will never, ever be a freak, Dudders." Petunia said vehemently. "Never, ever."_

_"Promise?" Dudley was sounding half asleep again._

_"I promise, Dudley." Petunia answered._

_Harry fell back asleep as well, but he remembered the conversation when he woke up._

_"No family. Freaks don't have families." he muttered to himself, then his eyes widened. "But what if the freak had a freak family, too?" It was just light enough for him to see inside, with sunlight coming the cracks, so he pulled out Dudley's old, broken toy soldiers and set up them up together._

_"You're the freak daddy, you're the freak mommy, you're the freak Harry, and you're my freak brother." he told the four figures solemnly. "We do the work together, and live in the cupboard, and love each other, because freaks stick together." he nodded firmly, then bent back down to playing with the toys, acting out a scenario with them where Petunia was mad at all of them, but they escaped back to the cupboard where there were no mean people allowed inside._

* * *

 

Harry shivered, the action pulling him out of the reminiscence as he realized that he had gotten cold standing in the open window. He shut it most of the way, leaving it open a crack for the owl when she returned, and flopped on the bed with  _History of Magic_. He had read the first three chapters, intensely interested in it, when he heard his owl clacking her beak outside the window.

"Hullo." he greeted her, opening it wider so she could step through more easily.

"I read lots of names while you were gone. Helga? Rowena? Wendelin?" he looked back down at the book for another name as the owl pointedly refused to respond to any of them. "Hedwig?" the owl hooted and fluffed up its feathers, sidling closer to Harry till she was nuzzling his arm.

"Hedwig!" exclaimed Harry, petting her. Hedwig kruffed and began preening her feathers. Harry laughed a little and turned back to his book.

* * *

 

In the morning, Harry woke up with the first light through the window. He shuddered as he stepped out of bed, hugging himself as he tried to forget his unsettling dreams. The abrupt changes to his life were bringing memories to the forefront of his mind, and he wrestled with them in his dreams as his mind tried to come to terms with the new arrangement.

Harry blinked at the rising sun, astonished at how good it felt to be bathed in sunlight at the beginning of the day. He pulled on jeans and a sweater and leaned out the window, basking in the cool air against his skin juxtaposed with the warm sunlight. With a sigh, several minutes later, he turned back to his desk and decided to read more of his books until the rest of the family was up.

The first hint was grumbling coming from his aunt and uncle's room. It sounded like they were having an increasingly panicked conversation. Harry caught a few shouted snippets,

"Can't even think,"

"Tried to call...couldn't dial...teacher."

Harry smiled with relief. It was working! They couldn't make people believe he was bad anymore! He chuckled as he thought of the sour-lemons look on Petunia's face when he was polite to her the night before and resolved to continue on the track. "Slay them with kindness." he murmured, unable to remember where he had heard the saying, but liked the sound of it.

Accordingly, he bounced down the stairs noisily as soon as he heard Petunia make her way down them and met her in the kitchen.

"Good morning, Aunt Petunia!" he chirped, "I hope you slept well. Can I help you make breakfast?"

Petunia simultaneously appeared to experience extreme confusion and anger.

"The...woman said you only had to work in the garden." she finally ended up choking out.

"I like making breakfast!" he responding with the sweetest smile he could procure. "How about I scramble eggs while you fry up some mashers?"

Petunia stared at him hard for several minutes before nodding jerkily and turning to the fridge. Harry fetched the eggs and cracked a dozen of them into a bowl and began whipping them into a bubbly froth. Petunia went about the kitchen mechanically, staring at Harry whenever she thought he wasn't watching, then averting her eyes with a jerk, focusing on her own work.

Dudley stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen a few minutes later. He stopped dead still when he saw Harry stirring the eggs in a frying pan.

"So he's working again?" he asked Petunia eagerly. Petunia looked like something very unpleasant had just occured.

"No." she bit off. "He  _volunteered_  to  _help_." she said, almost sounding petulant.

"Oh." Dudley looked confused as to why anyone would volunteer to cook. "Can I have a sweet?" Petunia left off the rashers and turned to embrace her son.

"Of course, Duddykins!" she cooed, and fetched him a bar of chocolate from the cupboard. Dudley immediately unwrapped it and started munching, heading for the sitting room. A few minutes later the telly came on, and one of Dudley's favorite shows started playing in the background. Petunia was silent, now refusing to even acknowledge Harry's presence. She continued the silence all through breakfast, though Vernon growled at Harry whenever he moved, causing Harry to suppress frightened twitches every time, and Dudley got increasingly frustrated with his words catching in his voice every time he tried to say something rude to Harry.

Harry finished off his again slight-too-large breakfast, cleared his plate, and vanished back to his room.

Hedwig was perched on the headboard of his bed, graciously letting a strange owl sit on her perch and drink some water.

"Well hello." Harry greeted the owl, who stuck its leg out towards Harry. Harry carefully untied the parchment attached to the owl. The owl pecked his hand when he tried to carry it to the window.

"Ouch!" Harry complained, then tried again to put the owl out the window. This time it hooted at him and flew back to the post. Harry blinked. "Errr, you waiting for a...response, then?" the owl hooted again and settled down till it looked like a furry fluffball. Harry shrugged and unrolled the parchment, sitting on the bed to read.

_"Harry Potter_

_"Thank you for the letter. I knew that our mothers were godmothers to us, but never thought of writing you before. I'm not very clever, and I'm afraid that you will find me boring once we've written a few times._

_"My Gran is all right. She's strict, but I know she just wants me to be a strong wizard, but I'm almost a squib. My Uncle Algie's been trying to force magic out of me for ages. It was only last month that I bounced all the way down the lane when he dropped me out the second storey window, and my Gran was so happy I had magic that she almost cried. Then my Uncle Algie bought me a toad to take to Hogwarts. I named him Trevor. He's all right, too, but he mostly sleeps or tries to escape._

_"I mostly garden when I'm not at school. My Gran sent me to a muggle primary school just in case, she said, I turned out to be a squib. That's all right, though. The classes are interesting even if I have to pretend to be a muggle while I'm there._

_"Gardening is my favorite thing to do. Every year on my birthday my Gran gives me an interesting plant to learn about and take care of. Sometimes I try to crossbreed them, but I haven't been successful yet._

_"I'm glad Professor McGonagall told you about me. It would be nice to know someone before we start Hogwarts. Sorry if this letter was boring. I don't know what else to say._

_"Neville Longbottom_

Harry wanted to sit and think about the letter awhile before he wrote back, but the brown owl seemed to sense his reticence and clacked its beak at him warningly. Harry sighed and sat back down. Neville's letter was bothering him. The way his uncle tried to get him to do magic sounded a lot like how his relatives tried to get him to  _not_  do magic, like how he got the beating of his life after he turned his teacher's wig blue. Harry paused, poised over a new sheet of parchment and tried to put his thoughts in order.

 _"Dear Neville_ ,

_I hope you don't mind me addressing you as such. I think that's how most people start letters to a friend._

_"Gardening is something I do a lot of, too. We don't have any magic plants in our garden, just flowers, but I never would have tried to crossbreed any of them. That sounds hard! You must be more clever than you think if you're trying to do that before you've even gone to Hogwarts. Do you have any magical plants? What are they like?_

_"I don't think I like your Uncle Algie very well. It was very mean of him to drop you out of a window. It reminds me of how angry my uncle is whenever I did accidental magic, although the opposite of what happened to you. I'd tell him off if I were there. You could have gotten hurt, but maybe he would have been sorry then._

_"And I don't think you're boring at all. Gardening can be interesting, and since I went to muggle primary school too, that's something we had in common. What was your favorite subject? I rather liked all of them except art class. I'm rubbish at drawing and they didn't let us fingerpaint after year four. They said we had to use brushes then, but really, making a mess is half the fun of using paints._

_"Your owl is very handsome, but impatient. What's his name? Mine is called Hedwig._

_"Harry Potter_

The brown owl immediately flew to Harry's shoulder and stuck out its leg. Harry laughed at it a little and tied the letter on and let it fly out the window. He watched it go with a slightly wistful expression.

"I think I've made my first magical friend, Hedwig." he told her, grabbing his copy of  _Hogwarts: A History_  that Professor McGonagall had suggested he get, and headed for the stairs. He paused just outside the door.

"I'm going to go read outside. If you want to come, just fly out the window." he advised, then, "But don't let the neighbors see!"

With that, he snuck out the front: he was still reticent to see or interact with his relatives when he didn't have to, and stretched out in the back yard with his book and opened it up to the first chapter. When he got to the chapter describing the four Houses and their characteristics, a thought occurred to him.

 _Professor McGonagall looked much older and paler than before._. "I ought to have had more foresight. What a Gryffindor I am."  _she said._

Harry scratched his head. "I wonder what that means..." he mused, and tucked the thought away for a future letter to the Professor, then went back to reading about the Houses.

 _Maybe I'll be a Hufflepuff._  he thought, reading the descriptions again,  _I'm not brave, clever, or smart, but I do stick with my friends._  Then he thought of how he had been poring over his books.  _Maybe it would be nice to be in a House where everyone likes to learn things_. he mused, and flipped the page. He was soon lost to the outside world as he continued to read.

Later that day he composed the most polite letter he knew how to Professor McGonagall asking what she meant when she was acting like a Gryffindor, and what would happen if he didn't fit in any of the houses? Minerva responded with a long explanation of how everyone had bits of all the Houses in them, and that no one had ever not-been Sorted. Then she told him that while all the Houses had virtues, they also had downsides. Gryffindors could be brave, but also foolhardy, and often didn't think things through. Slytherins were clever and cunning, but they could also lack empathy and use people like tools to get what they wanted. Ravenclaws could be excellent scholars, but not notice how their actions affected others, or refuse to change their minds. Hufflepuffs were loyal and honest, but could be insular, and refuse to believe people outside their House if another Hufflepuff said they had been wronged.

She explained that everyone should try to understand themselves so they could avoid harming others by being blind or unkind, and that she was sure that he would be fine in whatever House into which he was Sorted.

 _I am the Head of Gryffindor House_. she wrote at the end of her letter.  _Both of your parents were Gryffindors, and I am sure that most of the Wizarding World expects you to follow in their footsteps, but you showed me the folly of assuming anything about you. Any House would be lucky to have you in it._

Harry was reassured by her letter, and was further convinced that he would not be a Gryffindor.  _I think everything through._  he thought to himself,  _And I'm certainly not brave or heroic,_  he decided, thinking of all the times he had to run away from Dudley and his friends, or tried to hide from Vernon and Petunia.

Reading Minerva's letter made him think of all the things she had told him about magic and the magical world, and he was briefly panicked that he had forgotten it all. He scrambled for his desk and tried to write down everything he remembered Minerva and Arabella telling him with notes by the things he still had questions about.

After awhile, he had filled the fronts and backs of several pages, and had a list of questions.

_Killing Curse?_  
_Cruciatus?_  
_Why did Voldemort attack my family and the Longbottoms?_  
_Why don't we say "Voldemort?"_  
_Why did Sirius Black betray my family?_  
_Why didn't Dumbledore check on me after he left me here?_  
_Why did Dumbledore have my vault key?_

Staring at his list of questions, it occurred to him that maybe Hedwig could take a letter to Sirius Black. He didn't know if it would make him feel better to have a letter from the man who had let Voldemort kill his parents, and who had killed one of his parents' best friends, but for the first time in his life, people were answering his questions, and he found that his appetite for knowing things was becoming insatiable. So he sat, stared at his parchment for several minutes, and finally started writing out a letter.

Several ruined drafts later, he had composed a short note for his erstwhile godfather.

_Sirius Black_

_My name is Harry Potter, and I'm told you are my godfather, but told Voldemort where to find my parents, and killed Peter Pettigrew. Why did you do that? I would never let anyone hurt my friends, or try to kill anyone, not even my Aunt and Uncle, and they used to be awfully mean to me._

_All I want to know is the truth. What did Voldemort do to make you betray my parents? If he was threatening your family I guess that would make sense, but my_ parents _died. I will never forgive you for that, but I still want to know why you did it._

_Harry Potter_

Harry was surprised to find, as he tied the letter to Hedwig, that he was crying great, heaving sobs. Hedwig tried to nuzzle him, but he told her to go, then settled on his bed, trying to regain control over his tears.

* * *

 

"Albus Dumbledore!" the man in question looked up from his desk where he had been absentmindedly staring at the devices he had which monitored Harry and Privet Drive.

"Yes, Minerva?" he asked absently, trying to focus his thoughts - a task that had become more difficult for him in the last few years. Minerva was storming across the room glowering at him.

"You said the wee lad would be safe, and dinna listen to my objections, but I was right! They  _are_  the worst sort of muggles!" Dumbledore blinked.

"I'm sure you're mistaken," he began, confused, "The monitoring devices tell me that Harry is doing well. In fact, he's better now than he's ever been before. The wards are incredibly strong; indeed, they got quite the boost in strength a few days ago."

Minerva rolled her eyes.

"An o' coarse they did!" she said, scottish accent coming to the foreground with her agitation, "A few days ago is when I placed a geas on his family to treat him kindly." Dumbledore sat bolt upright, shock and disapproval warring for dominance on his face.

"I'm very disappointed in you." he said, looking woeful and woebegone. "Casting spells on the Dursley family to make them treat Harry better than their own son? He must have a normal childhood, not be revered. If I had wanted him to be glorified, I would have placed him with a wizarding family."

Minerva leaned over the desk till she was barely a handspan from his face.

"You listen to me, and not to your own opinion, Albus." she all but hissed, "The muggles were keeping him in a cupboard with locks on the outside. He was barely being given a meal a day, and they never bought him clothes, toys, or school things. I had to force Petunia Dursley to clean out their trollish son's  _second_  bedroom so that Harry could move out of the cupboard. When I helped him with shopping and buying new clothes, he was so grateful and astonished that he almost cried! He thought his parents were drunks, unemployed, and died in a car accident!"

Dumbledore pondered this for a moment. "I'm sure the Dursleys were only working with what they found comfortable. It wouldn't be responsible to tell an outgoing child who hasn't yet learned verbal restraint that his parents were magical when he's living among Muggles. And perhaps the cupboard was his playroom, mm? Small children love to have forts and hideaways."

Minerva glowered. "I know what I saw, and right now I'm trusting my own judgement more than yours." she told him, more upset than she had been before, "He had bruises, was far too small for his age, and flinched every time anyone made a sudden movement. The boy. Was. Mistreated." she enunciated slowly and with exaggerated care. "I have taken care of it. He can remain at Privet Drive to keep up the blood wards, now that his relatives can no longer harm him, and I will continue to visit him to insure his safety. You." she pointed directly at his slightly crooked, long nose, "Will not. Interfere."

Dumbledore blinked again, unable to process his faithful Second's complete defiance of his authority. He let his face fall pensive and sad while he caught her gaze and attempted to glean her surface thoughts with Legilimency. While Minerva did know Occlumency, she was agitated enough that he caught glimpses of her horror at "Harry's Room" written in childish handwriting inside the cupboard door, and his astonishment and tears when Minerva bought him clothes. He sighed, and considered that he may have been wrong about the Dursleys' treatment of him. Yet...his mind was thinking of the benefits of this upbringing. Clearly,Harry would adore the people who took him away from the Dursleys and want to please them...his mind spun the potential to its fullest extent. He cleared his throat.

"Perhaps an apology to him would be in order. I did only have his best interests at heart. You know of the prophecy, Minerva, and you must have deduced, despite not knowing its particulars, that it relates to Harry and Voldemort. I truly believed he would be safest there...and he was safe from the wizarding world, although clearly not from the muggles. Thank you for your intercession on his behalf." he stood, clearly dismissing her. Minerva, although still high on her outrage, was subdued; years of looking up to Dumbledore and belief in his omniscience proving to have conditioned her to back down before his authority.

"Well," she blustered as she started towards the door, "it was obviously necessary." she said, and took her leave, Dumbledore nodding amiably behind her, although the particulars of the conversation were already slipping from Albus's mind. He grasped desperately for the memories, realising his mind was weakening with age, and seized a Wit-Sharpening potion from his bottom drawer and downed it, sighing as his memory and thought processes became clearer and easier to navigate.

"I cannot step down." he said to himself, talking aloud. "Not until Voldemort is gone for good. I know best. I do." his last words were almost desperate, but he nodded to himself, convinced in his own infalibility and sat heavily down at his desk again, eyes drifting to the rhythmic motions of the whirling devices until they lulled his thoughts into drifting foggily once more.

* * *

 

Harry was having the best summer of his life. He was still averse to spending any time with his relatives; being in close proximity to Petunia - or Vernon especially - sent his heart racing into overdrive, palms to sweating, and breathing fast and shallow - but he was more content than he had ever been. Neville was still owling him, and he was enjoying the correspondence immensely, although Neville's home life bothered Harry. In return to an owl in which Neville said his Gran hadn't gotten him a new wand, but insisted that he would use his father's, but wouldn't let him touch it till he went to Hogwarts, Harry sat down to think through his reponse before he sent it back.

 _I know Ollivander said that the wand chooses the wizard, but if it were his father's, how could it choose Neville?_  he wondered.  _Can wands even belong to a second person? With all the things Neville has said about his Gran, it sounds more like she wants him to be his dad exactly instead of being his own person._  Harry chewed his lip and pondered further.  _But how can I decide on something when I haven't even met them? Maybe...maybe I could visit Neville this summer..._  he thought about it awhile longer, then jotted off a response to Neville saying it was a shame he couldn't even hold the wand before Hogwarts, describing how it felt when his wand chose him, and that he thought it was a shame that Neville's Gran wouldn't let him get a wand that would choose him.

 _"It's a bit lonely waiting for Hogwarts to start._ " he added,  _"Maybe I could come visit you sometime this summer. I'd love to see what a magical home looks like and finally meet you in person."_

Harry signed off, and sent the owl with the Longbottoms' brown owl, which Neville had informed him was named Calpurnis. He jotted a second letter,  _"more of a note, really"_ , he thought, to McGonagall. He explained that he thought that Neville's family wasn't very nice to him, and weren't even letting him get his own wand.

_"Can someone use a wand that hasn't chosen them? I think Neville would feel really badly if he couldn't cast spells with his Father's wand. He says his family thought for ages he was a squib, and if he can't cast spells properly I think he would believe them._

_I'm sorry if this is rude. I just want to help Neville, since he seems really nice."_

He finished the letter with a thanks for dealing with Dursleys, and said they had been tolerable ever since. Harry gazed over the letter, deemed it acceptable, and sent it with Hedwig who had returned earlier that day from Azkaban without any sort of return correspondance from Sirius Black. That done, he crossed the room and stared at the calendar on the wall which he had asked for, and - shockingly to him - gotten while at the store with Petunia.

August 18 he crossed the day off the calendar and flopped on his bed, bored of reading his schoolbooks, as he was now reading through them for the second time.2. Harry sighed, and headed outside, expanded satchel with writing materials and  _England's Heroes: The Ones Who Have Shaped Our World,_  which Minerva had suggested he read as it would give a background on wizarding culture and mindsets.

 _"Bored."_  he thought again, having never before had this much time without chores to do, and not sure how to fill all of his house. Jana and Eloise weren't due to meet him at the library till the next afternoon, and without them, he couldn't check out books since there was no way that his aunt or uncle would ever sign for him to get a library card... _"Oooooh."_  Harry thought.  _"Now I bet they would."_  he reversed direction and bounded back into the house, mentally steeling himself to encounter his aunt. He found her in the sitting room where she was watching telly.

"Hi Aunt Petunia." he said, slowing down as he came near her. She grunted in response.

"Would you take me to the library and help me get a card?" he asked hopefully. Petunia glared at him, tried to speak, sighed, then stood.

"Fine." she responded shortly, looking as though she would rather do anything else than assist her nephew. "Get in the car." Harry beamed.

"Thank you so much!" he said effusively, pouring on the sweetness in accord with his plan of "Kill them with kindness.", and bounded out of the house.

Twenty minutes later, Petunia looking pained at treating Harry so well and not badmouthing him to the librarians, Harry had his precious library card cradled in both hands. The librarians looked like they were about to melt at the sight as he thanked Petunia and the librarians and solemnly promised he would always be responsible with the books.

"He's such a good boy." one of the librarians told Petunia, "He just loves reading, and is here several times a week with his friends. Sometimes they even gather up the little kids and read to them. It's so sweet." Petunia looked as though something foul tasting was in her mouth, but somehow forced a smile.

"He is very...responsible." she bit out, and turned around and walked out of the library, leaving Harry next to the bewildered looking red-head.

"She's not very comfortable talking to strangers." Harry confided in the man, who accepted the explanation without question.

"Some people are just shy, I guess," he shrugged, and turned back to the counter where he was checking books back in. Harry beamed at him and headed for the kids' section where he spent a glorious hour reading and selecting all the books he'd ever wanted but never had a chance to read. He checked them out, proudly handing his card to the bemused red-headed librarian, and tucked them into his satchel before heading to the park.

* * *

 

Minerva read Harry letter and sighed, sitting in her office and thinking about what to do.

 _"I doubt that Neville could use his father's wand well."_  she mused,  _"And woe betide anyone who tries to tell Augusta that."_  Minerva was well acquainted with Augusta Longbottom, and knew it would be difficult to change her mind about Neville. She had seen Augusta several times a year since the fall of Voldemort, and each time she had had some complaint about Neville's perceived faults. Minerva sighed again, got up, and went to her floo.

"Longbottom Manor." she said, tossing a handful of floo powder into the fire place and waited for a response. A few minutes later, Augusta's head appeared in the flames.

"Good morning, Augusta." Minerva said composedly.

"Minerva." Augusta responded. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Minerva steeled herself a little.

"I've just received an owl from Harry Potter," she began, and Augusta blinked.

"I did as well. Well, Neville did. Apparently Harry owled him a few weeks ago and they've been carrying on quite the correspondance ever since, and well he might as their parents were such good friends. Did you know that he has been living with muggles? I couldn't believe it till Neville showed me the letter. He wants to come visit." she said, looking pleased with herself that the Boy-Who-Lived wanted to be connected with her family. "I can only hope that when they meet in person that Neville won't entirely disgrace the Longbottom name." Minerva bit back a sigh, gaining more insight into how the Longbottom matriarch viewed her grandson and not liking the picture.

"How interesting." she responded, coming up with a plan on the fly, "Harry mentioned to me in his owl that Neville hasn't been to Ollivander's yet. I was going to suggest that you let Harry come visit, get acquainted with his godbrother, and perhaps take a trip to Diagon Alley. Harry hasn't been exposed to the wizarding world much yet and I'm sure that another visit with someone as distinguished as yourself would be interesting for him, as well as your reputation and presence deterring any effusive...fans."

Augusta appeared to mull this over. "Neville doesn't need to get a wand." she said sharply, at last, "He will be using Frank's." Minerva pasted an expression of surprise onto her face.  _"Neville isn't Frank, madam, and you can't force him into becoming his father."_ she thought to herself.

"Why, Augusta," Minerva said rather than speak her thoughts; "You know as well as I do that a wand which doesn't choose its owner will never work well for a witch or wizard. I'm sure you want Neville to have every possible advantage."

"That's true." Augusta allowed. "Neville doesn't show much aptitude and will likely need help to succeed in school." she paused, "But Frank's wand should be good enough for my grandson if it was good enough for my son, and Neville's gotten positively mouthy lately. I'm not sure a treat such as vising the Alley is a proper reward for his recent behavior."

Minerva despaired of convincing the matriarch. "Or perhaps he's just gaining confidence from his friendship with Harry." she suggested gently, "You know how Frank loved his friends." she wasn't sure how last two sentences were actually connected, but Augusta seemed to be pondering this possible connection between Frank and Neville. Augusta sighed.

"I'll think about it." she said finally, then disappeared from the fire. Minerva sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"Augusta is exhausting." she muttered to herself, and returned to her desk to jot off a note in response to Harry.

* * *

 

Harry turned the parchments over in his hands. Minerva had written him back and told him that wands didn't usually work well for anyone other than the one they had chosen, but that inherited wands were sometimes all right. She assured him that Augusta would make the right choices for her grandson, but Harry sensed doubt in her letter.

Just a few moments earlier on this day, Harry had finally gotten a response from the Longbottom owl, though it was from Augusta, not Neville.

_"Harry J. Potter_

_"Mister Potter,_

_"I am Augusta Longbottom, Neville's grandmother. I am pleased that you have enjoyed your correspondance with my grandson enough to seek to meet in person. We would be pleased if you would visit us at Longbottom Manor. Neville will be going to Ollivander's soon to get a wand matched to him, and you are welcome to join us for that day. We will be going to Diagon Alley on the twenty-third of August in the afternoon, though you are welcome to visit earlier in the day, as you prefer._

_"Minerva McGonagall informs me that you are not well versed in the ways of the wizarding world and might not know how to reach Longbottom Manor. As I assume your house is not connected to the floo, the best mode of transportation would be the Knight Bus. To summon it, stand by the road and stick out your wand with the intention of summoning it, and it will appear shortly. Tell the conductor you wish to go to Longbottom Manor, and it will bring you here. The cost ought not be more than a few sickles._

_"Please respond with the time of your convenience._

_"Augusta Longbottom_

Harry grinned as he read the letter. A new wand for Neville! He didn't know if it was he letter to Neville or to Minerva that had resulted in this, but he was thrilled that Neville would get the opportunity to use a wand that would work properly. He sat down and wrote the most formal letter he could in response to Augusta Longbottom, thanking her for the invitation and instruction on summoning the Knight Bus, and told her that he would like to come over in the morning - say, at nine o'clock?

Calpurnis was eyeballing him and hopping impatiently by the time he finished painstakingly writing out his letter, so he finished as quickly as he could with his salutations, and sent it off with the bird. That done, he checked his expanded bag to make sure he had a few sickles handy in it, and mentally cheered.

"I get to meet Neville!" he told Hedwig. She barked at him in what he took to be an encouraging fashion, and he grinned at her.

"My first wizarding friend." he smiled.

* * *

 

The morning of the twenty-third, Harry was up at sunrise, as he had been every morning since his birthday, when Minerva had moved him upstairs to his current bedroom. Unwilling to spoil his mood by interacting with the Dursleys, he made himself a small breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, ate, then gathered all the things he thought he might need at Neville's, and went to the park to pass the hours until he would attempt to summon the Knight Bus.

He was happily swinging when it occurred to him that he didn't have a watch. Harry slowed, letting his feet drag as he considered this, and stared up at the sun, wishing he could tell time by looking at the sky.

 _"What if it's already nine?"_ he thought, panicky, gathered his things, and fled to the nearest convenience store. He burst in, trying to slow down and calm himself, and startled the teenager slouching behind the counter.

"Blimey, kid! You near gave me a heart attack!" the pimply boy complained.

"Sorry." Harry panted. "What time is it? I'm hoping I'm not late, and I don't have a watch.." he trailed off. The kid looked up at the clock on the wall.

"Half eight." he responded, bored, then, "If you're not going to buy anything, then skedaddle!" he ordered. Harry nodded.

"OK, thanks!" he responded, and headed outside.

 _"Eight thirty."_ he mused.  _"I should probably go now, but...this street's too busy to summon a magical bus..._ " Harry peeked around the corner of the street and made his way to a quieter block, then feeling utterly foolish, stuck out his wand and waited.

"Knight Bus?" he asked, holding it out, then let his wand drop to his side. He was just about to head home and write to Augusta apologizing when with a loud  _bang_ , a garishly painted, triple-decker bus dropped out of...nowhere? Everywhere? and screeched to a halt in front of front door popped open.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike and I will be your conductor this morning. " 3.

"Hi." Harry said in response, stunned by the appearance of the bus. Stan, clearly still a teenager with a thin, weasely face leaned out of the bus.

"Well, get in, then! Where you off to?" Harry clambered into the bus and looked around. A chandelier swung crazily from the ceiling, and a shrunken head from the rear-view mirror, although said mirror was so dirty Harry was sure that there was no way anyone could use it for its intended purpose.

"Well?" Stan asked again. Harry broke off his staring and and tried to remember.

"Ummm, Longbottom Manor." he responded finally.

"Not too smart, ain't ya?" Stan asked cheerfully. "Well that'll be...lemme see...two sickles, firteen knuts, and you're behind two others who're popping to the Leaky Cauldron and Dorset, respectitively," he nodded at a sleeping, elderly witch who was curled up on an ottoman and a young, twitchy wizard in purple robes.

Harry counted out the sickles and knuts into Stan's hand.

"And iffin yer wanting a hot choc'lat that'll be a sickle an' ten knuts." Harry shrugged and counted that out to Stan as well. Stan grinned and pocketed the fare.

"Pop squat anywhere an' I'll bring you the choc'lat." Stan said, then, "Take it away, Ernie!" to the driver. Harry hadn't quite taken his seat when the Knight Bus launched away, throwing him into the back of his chair. Harry grabbed both arms of the chair and held on, wide-eyed and biting back a scream as the bus lurched around a corner and between the lanes of traffic.

"Is this safe?" he yelled over the horrible noises the bus was making. Stan, pouring hot chocolate into a mug as he balanced in the lurching vehicle grinned, showing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.

"Sure is!" the conductor responded, "Haven't had an accident in over a week!"

Harry gulped hard. Stan manuevered himself over to Harry and handed him the mug of hot chocolate.

"Thanks." Harry said, unwillingly letting go of one of the armrests to take the mug.

"Say, what'd you say your name was?" Stan asked. Harry shrugged with one shoulder.

"I didn't."

"So what is it?" Stan pestered. "Yer awfully young t' be ridin' the Bus alone."

"Oh, I'm going to visit a friend." Harry assured him.

"Ah, that's aulraight then." Stan nodded, and headed back to the front of the bus, apparently unaware that Harry hadn't answered his original question.

Harry sipped his chocolate, tried to avoid spills when the bus made particularly death-defying jolts, and wished for the ride to be over.

Several horrifically unsafe stops later - two to let off passengers, and four to take on new ones - and the bus screamed to a stop in front of a long lane that winded between fields and hedgerows to terminate at a large house a quarter of a mile away. Harry pried his fingers from their death grip on the arm of the chair, gave Stan the mug, and exited the bus on shaky legs. Stan leaned out of the bus.

"Head up the lane - there's the house. Can't miss it!" Stan laughed at his poor attempt at humor, and Harry chuckled unconvincingly, then headed off down the lane.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm attempting to make it clear that this story somewhat relies on the butterfly effect, starting with "Harry is a girl." Other small changes ensue - a different viewpoint, perhaps a bit of a personality change, more trusting of people who are kind (due to his teacher and school nurse being kind to him, then Minerva coming to his rescue). 
> 
> Dumbledore: I find it hard to believe that in any serious story that Dumbledore's actions could be construed as anything other than A.)Manipulative and power hungry; B.) Senile and resistant to change; or C.) All of the above. I'm going with C. He's convinced he knows best, and is too senile to see warning signs or change his mind.
> 
>  
> 
> 1."To Harry James Potter: kind words only shall drop from thy mouth: kindness will you give to him as though he were an honored guest; you will not hinder or bind his actions; food shall you give to him as fairly as to yourselves: this geas I place on you. " Latin, via google translate.
> 
> 2\. In the books, Harry found his school books to be quite interesting and read History of Magic all night. I see no reason why, when exposed to a new, wonderful, and (so far, kind) world, why he wouldn't try to learn everything about it, and want to succeed. After all, the only reason he got poor marks in primary school was so he wouldn't make Dudley look bad.
> 
> 3\. Direct quote from The Prisoner of Azkaban


	5. Making Friends and Working Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally meets Neville Longbottom, a week before school starts. Augusta has a few realizations. Neville and Harry gain their first wizarding friends.

Harry hustled down the lane nervously, unwilling to arrive at the house late.

"Need to get a watch." he muttered to himself, hurrying along. He wasn't quite so intent on reaching the house that he didn't note the lovely morning. Clear blue skies, warm breeze, and soft animal noises gently assaulted his senses. He had rounded the last bend in the drive when he saw a small, slightly chubby boy sitting on the lawn. Harry quickened his pace slightly.

"Hullo." he greeted the other boy, inexplicably shy as he came close to him. 

"Hullo." returned the other, jamming his hands in the pockets of his robes. Harry reached out his hand to shake the other's who responded gravely. The seriousness of the situation apparently amused them both, for they broke out in identical giggles before sobering quickly once again. Neville stood up and carefully brushed off his robes.

"Gran hates it when I'm messy." he explained, then, "I suppose I should introduce you to her." he looked a little resigned. Harry nodded and followed Neville into the house. Neville proceeded through the wide, wooden doors and started walking through the large, tiled hall.

"This is fancy!" Harry exclaimed, rather awe-struck at the fine furnishings. Neville shrugged.

"It's been in my family for generations. Every new generation improves on the house, but still keeps it looking the same. It's a bit odd of a concept, but..." he trailed off as he started up a staircase. Harry bounded forward to walk next to him. Neville was fidgeting.

"Gran's nice, but awfully strict. Just be polite and you'll be fine." Neville sounded more like he was trying to reassure himself than Harry. Harry nodded and kept his chin up.

_"She's just the Gran of my friend."_ he reassured himself, _"She won't hurt you. Grownups who aren't the Dursleys never do. Well."_ he added to himself, _"I suppose Black and Dumbledore hurt me too..."_ he trailed off, wondering what life would have been like if his parents had still been alive, or if Dumbledore had put him with a nice family instead of with the Dursleys. Lost in his maunderings, he nearly walked into Neville as he tripped over the last step on the staircase. 

"Sorry." Harry said, then blinked. Neville was standing in front of an imposing door, clearly steeling himself. Neville paused a moment longer than knocked smartly on the door, twice.

"Enter." came the assured voice of an older woman. Neville opened it and stepped inside.

"Hello Gran." Neville greeted his grandmother. "This is Harry Potter. Harry, my Gran, Augusta Longbottom."

Harry's eyes widened as he took in the woman. She looked formidable and frankly, a bit scary in her tailored robes, scarf, and a hat with a dead, black bird perched on it. Her facial expression was somewhat calculated as she observed Harry observing her. Harry stepped forward.

"Nice to meet you, Missus Longbottom." he said politely. "Thank you for having me over; your home is lovely." Augusta looked pleased at Harry's words.

"You have the look of your parents," she mused. Harry felt as though she was looking inside him with the intensity of her gaze, but she immediately turned her attention to her grandson.

"Stand up straight; your spine isn't meant to be soft. And don't mumble!" she corrected him as he attempted to apologize, "Do try not to be a disgrace today. You're really not like your father at all. He had excellent manners." Harry bristled again and tried to modulate his tone.

"Missus Longbottom," he said, aiming for calm and slightly wounded but the tone that mostly came through was disbelief, "that wasn't a very nice thing to say."

Augusta turned her steely gaze on him. Despite himself, Harry flinched violently and shrunk back momentarily before straightening again, and grabbed Neville's sleeve. 

"Nice to meet you again, ma'am!" he called out before taking off down the hall with Neville following after him. Harry ducked down a side corridor and sat on the floor, laughing a little. Neville sank down beside him, awestruck.

"Blimey." he whispered, "I've never seen anyone talk that way to Gran before." he turned to Harry, worried. "What if she makes you go away and doesn't let us write?"   
Harry sobered and chewed his lip. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "I suppose she could forbid us to write, but it's only about a week until we go to Hogwarts, anyway, and she can't keep us from talking there." Neville looked mollified at this logic and Harry went on, "If no one has ever talked to her that way, then she needs it anyway." he decided. "It's not nice to put you down like that, especially not in front of guests." Neville only shrugged, and Harry got the impression that the other boy was all too accustomed to his Gran treating him this way in front of strangers and friends. Inwardly, Harry determined that he would help bolster his new friend's self esteem. Thus decided, Harry scrambled to his feet.

"Why don't you show me your plants?" he asked, and Neville lit up like an overpowered Lumos Charm.

"It's in the back." Neville said as he dragged Harry down the stairs and outside, "Most of our plants are in the greenhouse. We're just really getting built back up to having stock in most of the useful magical plants now - Longbottoms have always grown potions ingredients - since our greenhouses were partially destroyed when I was one." Harry nodded along with Neville's unexpected pratter all through the trip down. When they stepped through the door into the main greenhouse Harry gaped at the variety of incredible plants. Neville steered him through, pointing out plants and describing their uses and traits. 

"Wow." Harry finally broke in, "you're really smart!" Neville blushed deeply. "No...it's just plantlore. Anyone could learn it..." he trailed off as Harry broke in again.

"And how many people actually successfully grow plants like you can?" Neville blushed an even deeper hue and mumbled something. "Eh?" Harry asked. Neville looked up and steeled himself.

"Not many." he enunciated clearly. 

"See?" Harry smiled, "You're obviously smart and talented to be able work with plants that most trained adults can't." Neville looked desperately uncomfortable and seized quickly upon a topic change. 

"Over here! We have a bototuber. They look nasty but can be used for..." Harry laughed and let Neville drag him over to the plant. 

* * *

  
“Chin up, Augusta.” The elderly woman regarded her reflection in the window, and repressed a heavy sigh. She couldn’t get the look on the Potter boy’s face out of her mind when she had spoken to Neville earlier.

The look on his face each and every time she’d spoke to Neville. The look on his face that started to surface when she turned towards Harry. She just couldn’t get it out of her mind.

When she had spoken to Neville, correcting his behavior, a perfectly normal thing for Augusta to do in regards to her incompetent, clumsy grandson, Harry had looked downright horrified.

When, a few minutes later, she had turned towards Harry with a similar expression, he had flinched in _abject fear_ … no, _terror_. Augusta never wanted to be the reason that her grandson or any of his friends looked at her in fear.

“He cannot be afraid of me. I am his Gran. I haven’t mistreated him.” She told her reflection sternly, but it only looked sternly back at her.

Her shoulders slumped a little and she went to her pensieve, where it was stored in a cupboard of her study, and levitated it carefully to her desk, where she sat down facing it, rubbing her temples a little, and willing herself to continue.

Her hands didn’t shake at all as she withdrew memory after memory from her mind, spanning the last eight years of many of her encounters with her grandson where she had taken him to task for his appearance or behavior, and with a fortifying deep breath, she leaned forward and touched her face to the swirling surface of memories, which sucked her in relentlessly.

Twenty minutes later she sat up, tears on her face, gripping her wand tightly enough that her nails dug into her palm.

It _was_ fear that had been on Neville’s face. Oh, not in the very beginning. Once he was blank and confused, the way he was for years after the Cruciatus curse. Once he’d started talking, however, once he’d begun to truly engage with the world, that was when Augusta began engaging with him instead of relying solely on nannies.

And yes, she was deeply, profoundly ashamed of herself, that his reactions were of fear.

At the time it had seemed so reasonable. Neville was walking, talking, learning, feeding himself, so it was time for him to learn how to do things properly.

Looking back, she horrified herself. That tiny, broken little boy had emerged from his shell only to be browbeaten into another one. He had barely moved in all the years since, lest Augusta be towering over him, all disapproval and cutting words that had doubtless crushed his self esteem.

Augusta put her head in her hands and wept. Then, she sat up, resolutely wiped her face, and firecalled Minerva. She would learn how to set this right.

  
Minerva McGonagall was surprised to see, for the second time in a week, Augusta Longbottom’s face sticking out of her fireplace, and it wasn’t a particularly welcome surprise, either.

Oh, she and Augusta were on relatively friendly terms, but conversing with her was draining. Attempting to sway her opinion on any given subject? Like being bled out by a starving vampire.

Nevertheless, Augusta was one of her oldest acquaintances, so she knelt on the rug and stuck her face in the flames.

“Hello, Augusta. What can I do for you today?” she inquired, then was utterly startled to see _tear-tracks_ of all things on the old battle axe’s cheeks.

“Whatever is wrong?” she demanded, panicking a little. Had Neville been injured? Harry was visiting that day. Had _Harry_ suffered an accident? Minerva’s mind whirled with the multitudes of terrible possibilities.

“Minerva, I fear I have been unknowingly harming Neville for years.” Came Augusta’s quiet response. From her tone, Minerva thought she detected…shame. Unbelievable.

“What do you mean?” Minerva asked. The woman had been strict, surely, but harming her grandson?

“I…” Augusta cleared her throat. “Harry is here, and when he saw me speak to Neville, I noticed that he looked horrified; shocked. A few minutes later, I turned to speak to Harry directly, and he flinched away in fear. Fear of me. Fear because he saw the way I spoke to my grandson. So…” Augusta looked down and away, and yes that was definitely shame on her face, “I sent them out to play and reviewed my memories in a pensieve, and oh! Minerva, I have been cruel to my poor Neville. For so long. I don’t know how to fix it, to make him know that I care for him, and I’m sorry I’ve been hurting him all these years. How do I do it, Minerva?”

Minerva was grateful for her years of dealing with unexpected surprises and shocking circumstances, because otherwise she would certainly have been completely frozen in shock; her jaw residing in the neighborhood of her knees.

“Augusta.” She said gently, trying to think of how to phrase her response in the best possible way, “I am sure that Neville loves you very much and only wants you to recognize his strengths and to stop drawing attention to his faults. I promise you, he knows what his faults are, but you bring them up constantly. That wears on anyone. Not only that, but…” Minerva now cleared her own throat, stalling.

“The last time I saw you, you reminded him at least three times that he was Frank’s son and should behave like it. Or that he was nothing like Frank, or that he should be more like Frank. Augusta, Neville is Frank’s son just as much when he’s being himself as when he’s trying to be the grandson you think that he should be. Frank and Alice would have loved him no matter what his interests or temperament, but you’ve convinced him that they wouldn’t like him at all the way he is.

“Just love him, let him know you love him, and that you’re sorry for trying to make him into someone else. I believe he’ll forgive you whole-heartedly, if you’re sincere.”

Augusta was tearing up and nodded briskly.

“Your advice is invaluable, old friend.” She said roughly. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you before when you tried to talk to me about Neville. I certainly will in the future.”

“You’re welcome.” Minerva said softly. “Now go talk to him.”

Augusta nodded. “Thank you.” She said, voice returning to its normal, brisk, state, and ended the floo call.

Minerva sat back on her heels and stared at her wall in utter befuddlement. One look from the Boy-Who-Lived and Augusta reevaluated her entire parenting style and reflected on her past, which not only cast the matriarch in a bad light, but she then tried to fix it instead of rationalizing her choices away.

That boy either had magic in those green eyes beyond anything wizards had discovered, or he was the second coming of Merlin.

 

* * *

  
The boys were still occupied with Neville's plants when Augusta appeared in the greenhouse suddenly what felt to the two boys, like only a few minutes later. Neville, perhaps more attuned to his Gran than Harry turned, hands still knuckle-deep in potting soil and blanched slightly.

"Gran." he greeted her and she nodded, eyes assessing the two boys where they stood, heads close together, repotting an orchid plant that had just outgrown its pot. Harry turned too, face still flushed with laughter at one of Neville's comments and nodded to her. 

"I'm glad to see you are enjoying yourselves," she said, looking pensive, "but it's the noon hour. We must lunch then away to Diagon Alley." the boys nodded, finished shaking in the rest of the soil and followed Augusta back up to the house where they were directed into an antechamber to wash for lunch. When they reappeared in the hall Augusta spun her wand over them and clearly incanted "Evanesco". Harry was delighted to see their grubby robes become perfectly clean once more and grinned, fingers unconciously mimicking the wand motion as he tried to commit it to memory. Augusta cleared her throat. 

"Bring your guest to the dining room, Neville." she said, then, looking like she had changed her mind on what else she might have said, she strode away in a swirl of robes. Neville blinked and nudged Harry.

"Usually she scolds me for getting grubby." he whispered to Harry who whispered back,

"How are you supposed to work in the greenhouse without getting grubby?" Neville only shrugged and opened the door in front of them. Augusta was already seated at the head of the table and nodded to the boys who took places on either side. Once they were seated, Augusta clapped her hands and the luncheon dishes appeared. Taking Neville's cue, Harry waited until Augusta had served herself before dishing food onto his plate unbeknownst to Missus Longbottom's keen eyes observing her grandson and his guest.   
They ate, mostly in silence between short queries and responses until Augusta patted her lips with a napkin and stood. Neville and Harry, having finished shortly before followed her example and trailed after her to the sitting room and the floo connection.   
Harry stood on one foot before the fire and gazed at it thoughtfully. Augusta turned to him, a ceramic bowl in her hand.

"Have you ever heard of the floo network?" she inquired. Harry shook his head.

"You mentioned it in your letter but I don't know what it is." he admitted, and Augusta's face softened a little. 

"It's a network of fireplaces that wizards use to travel." she explained. "You take a handful of powder, cast it into the flames, say the name of your destination clearly, and step in. You will feel a whirling sensation that slows just before you exit on the other side. As you feel it, start taking steps and you'll exit without falling, at least after some practice. Neville, would you care to demonstrate?" Neville gave an astonished start but shook himself into a semblance of calm and nodded.

"Of course, Gran." he said obediently, took a small handful of powder, threw it into the flames - which turned green, an astonished Harry noted - and saying "Diagon Alley." he stepped into the flames and vanished. Augusta held the bowl out of Harry.

"Diagon Alley. Take steps." she reminded him, and he nodded and threw some powder into the flames. He steeled himself, repeated the phrase and walked into the fire, wincing and expecting burning heat. He was surprised to feel only warmth as he was whisked away, spinning, and reminded himself to take steps and attempted to do so. As the spinning sensation faded, he found himself stepping out of a fireplace into The Leaky Cauldron, and astonished, almost lost his balance as he half-staggered away from the fire, Augusta stepping out gracefully after him, adjusting her hat with one hand as she went.

"Very good first attempt." she told him, and looked 'round for Neville who was already standing by the brick wall and waving at Harry, grinning uncharacteristically. Harry bounded over, ignoring the people in the pub staring at him, including Tom who looked torn between not bothering Harry and shaking his hand enthusiastically, and paused next to the bricks.

"Which one again...?" he mused, taking out his wand and tapping the one he recalled Minerva touching. He was pleasantly surprised to see the bricks separate as the wall opened up into Diagon Alley. Augusta caught up to the boys just before they stepped through and dropped a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Remain with me." she told them sternly. "I won't have you getting lost on my watch." she told Harry, and appeared to be debating what to tell Neville before settling on, "Stay close, Neville." he nodded and sedately dropped a few steps behind her with Harry who was, once again, staring in awe at the magical oddness of Diagon Alley. Neville helped him out on this trip, pointing out specific oddities and telling him their function, for which Harry was quite grateful.

"You know a lot." he told the other boy who shrugged. 

"It's just stuff everyone knows..." he tried to demure, but Harry insisted.

"No you really do know a lot!" Neville smiled shyly and tapped Harry to point out a two-headed snake in Eyelop's shop window. 

"That's a runespoor." he told Harry. "That one's unusual for only have two heads - most of them have three, but they don't get along well all of the time." Harry's eyes widened.

"There aren't wizards with two heads are there?" he inquired and Neville laughed.

"No, of course not!" he cried. "We only have one head." a bit ahead of them, Augusta choked a little causing Neville to scurry up. "Are you all right, Gran?" he asked. Augusta waved him off, looking suspiciously amused at the boys' conversation, but at that point, they were just outside Ollivander's shop. Neville suddenly looked apprehensive. Harry nudged him with a shoulder and grinned at him.

"Getting a wand is great." he half-whispered to his god-brother. Some tension visibly left Neville's shoulders, and he nodded and nudged Harry back. Augusta turned to the boys, tapping her umbrella on the ground until she had the two's undivided attention.

"Neville." she said sternly, "we are here for Mister Ollivander to evaluate your compatibility with your Father's wand. If, and only if he says that it will not work for you, will we get a new one for you to use. Do not pester for your own the moment we walk in." 

Neville nodded and appeared to be repressing the urge to shuffle his feet. "Yes, Gran." he acquiesced obediently. Augusta placed a hand on his shoulder and they went into the shop together, Harry trailing behind.  
Ollivander was nowhere in sight. Augusta crossed the room and seated herself on the edge of a dusty looking chair. Neville started peering at the boxes lining the walls, hands locked behind his back. Harry just hoped that Ollivander didn't get all creepy and weird again.

"Augusta Longbottom." a dry voice said, which sounded almost as dusty as the room, "Maple and dragon heartstring, ten inches, stiff and inflexible. Excellent for Charms work, tempermental if passed on to another user." 

Augusta inclined her head. "It has served me well, Garrick." she said, and he promptly lost interest in her, turning his attention, and birdlike head, in Neville's direction.

"Here for your first wand, young man?" he inquired. Neville shook his head.

"N..no."

"Well, perhaps." Augusta interrupted. "We are here to see if his father's wand will be compatible with Neville. If it is not, then we will want a new wand for my grandson."

Ollivander inclined his head and plucked Frank's wand from Augusta's outstretched hand.

"Hmmm," he mused, then, "wand hand?" Neville held out his right hand as Ollivander turned and handed it to him. Neville gulped, but took the wand gingerly, holding it away from himself. 

"What do you feel?" Ollivander inquired. "Warmth? An energy flowing between you and the wand? A desire to use it, to see what it can do?"

Neville shook his head, brow furrowed in concentration. "I feel like it doesn't want to do anything for me. Like it could, maybe, but it would rather not."

Ollivander peered more closely through his spectacles at Neville and the wand. Neville stood completely still under the scrutiny. After several moments, Ollivander sighed and shook his head.

"The wand does not prefer to be used by Neville. It has no desire to be used by another wizard. While perhaps somewhat anthropomorphizing the nature of the wand, I believe it desires only to be used by its original owner, though that is not possible, due to the injuries of the..." Augusta stood and cleared her throat, looking inexplicably saddened and aged from the conversation.

"Thank you, Garrick. Will you fit my grandson with his own wand?"  
Ollivander inclined his head in her direction, then the same rigamarole that Harry had gone through to find his wand commenced: tape measures flying around of their own volition; Ollivander pulling boxes off shelves and handing the contents to Neville before taking them away impatiently.   
Neville had only tried a few when the next wand Ollivander placed in his hand gave off a shower of gentle white wisps of mist and a blissful smile came over Neville's face. Ollivander looked inscrutable.

"Cherry and unicorn hair; twelve inches, swishy, tempermental, but very loyal to its first owner."  
Neville beamed and clutched it to his chest. 

* * *

  
The rest of the afternoon, Neville was quietly ecstatic, and Augusta unusually indulgent, or so Harry assumed from the way Augusta kept shooting surprised looks at Neville when he was especially verbose, and the way Neville looked shocked each time one of his requests to stop in a shop or get a technically unecessary purchase was aquiesced to.   
Harry, for his part, padded alongside the Longbottoms, wide-eyed and examining in detail everything he had missed his first time through the Alley. Neville served as his interpreter, and Augusta as a shield against the masses. 

"What're those for?" Harry inquired for perhaps the two dozenth time that day as they walked past a store filled with brooms and flying balls of various shapes and sizes. 

"Quidditch, Harry." Neville responded. "It's a game." 

Harry eyed the display window dubiously. "So you hit the balls around with the brooms?" he asked, to Neville's amusement.

"No, you fly on the brooms and the Beaters hit the Bludgers with the bats, the Chasers try to score goals with the Quaffle, and the Seeker chases the Snitch."

"On the brooms."

Neville nodded.

"Huh." was Harry's pronouncement as he wandered past the shop with no more than a cursory - and confused - glance back. "Flying does sound fun, though." he commented as they continued on, back towards the Leaky Cauldron. 

They stepped back through the Floo and returned to the Longbottoms', Harry only stumbling a little on his way out this time. 

"Will you be staying for dinner?" Augusta inquired of Harry as she divested herself of hat and cloak. Harry scuffed his foot a little on the carpet. 

"Yes, please." he responded, "if it isn't too much trouble." 

"No trouble at all." Augusta said graciously. "as Neville's godbrother, you are always welcome in our house."

Harry beamed. "Thank you!"

Dinner was a quiet affair, though Harry could tell that Neville was excited about his new wand and school supplies. Augusta finally cleared her throat and looked austerely down the table to the two boys.

“You two were well-mannered, didn’t stray, and got your supplies in a timely fashion.” Augusta looked uncomfortable momentarily before adding “well done.” To the end.

Neville positively beamed in delight, though he wrestled it under control in a moment and nodded his head. Unable to keep the delight out of his voice, he cheered, “Thanks, Gran!”

Augusta nodded her head once and returned her attention to her plate. The dam was burst, however, and Neville turned to Harry, beaming ear-to-ear.

“What classes do you think you’ll like the best?” he asked eagerly. Harry made sure to swallow all his food before pondering the question and responding.

“I’ve read all my books and I think they’re very interesting. I’m not sure I can say which one I’ll be best at, and what you’re good at generally determines what you’ll like the best.” He demurred. “I do think I’ll like Charms, and that I’ll be good at Potions. I cook a lot and Potions seems to be like that. Charms just seems like you can use them for a lot of different things. Very useful.”

“The word you could use in place of that clunky sentence, Harry,” Augusta interjecting, “is “versatile”. It means useful in a wide range of situations.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Harry said politely, then restated, “Charms looks like they’ll be ver-sa-tile.” He enunciated carefully. Augusta nodded at him.

“And indeed you are correct. Charms are very versatile. I expect you’ll be good at any subject you put your mind to. Neville, I am sure, will be prodigiously talented at Herbology.”

Neville looked dumbfounded at the compliment. “Thank you, Gran.” He said quietly.

“Nonsense.” She said briskly, “You’ve always loved plants and have done well with the greenhouses. If you weren’t good at it I should be quite shocked. What else do you believe you shall enjoy studying?” she inquired of her increasingly shell-shocked looking grandson, but he sat up straighter at the question, quite pleased at being asked his opinion on the subject, or any subject, really.

“Transfiguration seems like it will be very versatile as well.” He said a bit shyly. “I should like to be able to turn objects into other things.”

Augusta looked pleased, and rather surprised herself. “Indeed, it is a highly useful subject. I personally was quite good at Transfiguration, and your wand shares a core with mine, so perhaps some of the same aptitude is within you.”

Neville blinked a few times without responding, so Harry decided he had better carry the conversation forward.

“Are all the teachers nice?” he asked winningly. Augusta snorted.

“”Nice” is not the word I should use to describe Minerva - that’s Professor McGonagall to you - nor Professor Snape. Minerva is strict, but fair. Snape is extraordinarily unforgiving of fools and overly biased towards his House, from what I’ve heard over the years. Nevertheless,” she added, seeing trepidation on their faces, “I am sure that all students who do their best in class and homework will do quite well in all of the classes.”

Neville sighed, looking more apprehensive than before. “I’m sure to be slow and upset the professors.” He sighed.

“Nonsense!” Augusta said sharply, “You will do quite well if you have some confidence in yourself.

Neville looked ecstatic at the compliment, though a bit doubtful in the moment after.

“Missus Longbottom,” Harry put in, “would you show us a spell?” he smiled winningly. Augusta looked a little taken aback, but nodded and stood.

“When you’re finished eating, join me in the drawing room and I will demonstrate a simple light spell for you. Quite useful.”

Harry grinned. “Thanks Missus Longbottom!” she inclined her head and swept out of the room. Neville immediately leaned in close to Harry.

“Gran must love you! She’s never this nice!” Harry eyed Neville then sighed.

“That’s sad.” He responded. “Families should be nice to each other.” His face fell, sadness overwhelming his features. “I always daydreamed about having a nice family. I had some dolls I made when I was little, and I used to pretend that we were one, happy family, because I knew the Dursleys would never love me.”

He propped his chin on a hand and a smile crept over his features. “Then Professor McGonagall came and put a geese…or something that sounded like that…on them so they would let me have food and my own bedroom. Even though they’re nice, though, they aren’t my real family. One day I’ll have my own happy family. That’s what I want to have when I grow up.”

Neville patted him on the back, somewhat awkwardly, in commiseration.

“Gran’s not always bad.” He said in the barest of whispers. “She just wants me to be successful, and to stop stammering, and to not be clumsy.”

Harry turned to him. “Families should be nice no matter what.” He said passionately. “I used to see parents with their kids, and even if the kids cried or stole candy, they still loved them and hugged them when they were hurt. Stealing candy is a lot worse than being clumsy. Your Gran is lucky to have such a great grandson.”

Neville looked up tentatively through his eyelashes at Harry. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Harry affirmed, then clapped a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Let’s go learn our first spell!” he suggested, and Neville smiled as they went through to the drawing room together.

Augusta was seated, back straight and ankles crossed, wand in hand. Harry and Neville sidled in, rather to the side of the room rather than approaching her. Augusta looked exasperated.

“Come to me, here: in front of me.” She instructed. Suddenly bashful, Harry followed her instruction, Neville somewhat more confidently joining him.

“The incantation is “Lumos”.” She told them. “The movement is just the barest of flicks, like so: “she demonstrated slowly in conjunction with the incantation, without doing the spell. “Lu-” flick “mos”.

The boys followed along, hands holding imaginary wands.

“Good.” Augusta praised, Neville blinking at her when she did so. “Now, done correctly it will light up the tip of your wand, as though a tiny ball of light is balanced on it. Lumos.”

Her wand lit up with a tiny, strong light at once.

“It is intent based.” She lectured, “to a degree. Nox.” The light vanished. “If I say it again, but want a bigger light…Lumos,” her wand lit up again with a larger ball of similar luminosity, “I must merely focus on it. Nox.” If I want the light to be brighter, I must concentrate on that: “Lumos.” The light from her wand was nearly incandescent. Harry had trouble looking directly at it. “Nox.” She banished the light a final time. “Neville, go fetch your wand and practice it.” Neville looked up at her in astonishment.

“Yes, Gran!” he said, buoyant with joy, before rushing out of the room.

“I suppose you left your wand at home.” Augusta raised an eyebrow towards Harry, who flushed a little.

“No ma’am. It didn’t feel right to not carry it once I got it.” He confessed and was rewarded with a small smile.

“Quite right, Mister Potter.” She commended him, “Wizards ought always carry their wands, whether they’re permitted to use them or not.” She fixed him with a steely gaze. “After first year, minors are not permitted to use their wands out of school. It allows time for their bodies to devote all of their magic to grow healthily. This summer however,” she graced him with a smile, “as long as it is not too frequent, the Ministry tends to turn a blind eye to some unsanctioned magic use. They technically assume it will be accidental magic, but everyone knows that once youngsters get their first wands they’re keen to practice with them. It’s a wonderful feeling, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded. “Yes ma’am. It was holding it for the first time. I haven’t tried any spells yet, though.” Augusta looked astonished. “You’ve had it all summer and not once used your wand?”

“My guardians would be mad.” He shrugged, “they don’t like magic, and I don’t want to upset them.” Augusta opened her mouth to say something, but just then Neville burst through the doors, wand in a pudgy, thrilled fist.

“Stand before me.” Augusta instructed the two who moved back to their assigned positions. “Remember: “Lu” - flick “mos” and picture a very small ball of light on the tip of your wand. Ready? Incant.”

“Lumos.” The boys chorused, moving their wands with singleminded focus. Neither got the spell to work. Neville looked crushed.

“Should have known I’d be no good at magic.” He muttered, crestfallen.

“No, Neville!” Augusta said sharply, then modulated her tone when Neville and Harry both flinched away from her. She sighed and began again.

“Remember the feeling of warmth that cascaded from your body down your arm into the wand when you picked it up for the first time?” Both boys nodded, curious. “That is the feeling of magic rushing through your body to “meet” your new wand, for lack of a better word. Remember that feeling,but do not try to force it. Know that your body is a channel for magic, that it wants to flow to your wand to do your bidding. Now, we will try again: incant.”

Both boys had studied, focused looks on their faces.

“Lumos.” They incanted, with identical little flicks, and at the same time, tiny, wavery, translucent balls of light appeared on the ends of their wands, and identical, disbelieving, overjoyed expressions appeared on their faces.

“Well done.” Augusta praised them. “If I were a professor and school had already started, that would be five points to each of your Houses. On your second try! Well done, indeed.”

The boys were studying their wands, grins splitting their faces.

“It’s “Nox” to put it out.” Augusta reminded them, uncharacteristically gently for her.

“Nox.” Harry said reluctantly, and the light flickered, then vanished. Neville gazed at his light a little longer before following suit, then letting loose a long, quavery sigh.

“I’m a wizard. A proper wizard.” He said, dumbfounded.

“Of course you are.” Augusta said briskly.

“Now, it’s eight pm: time for you to be preparing for bed, Neville, and I presume you will be going home tonight, Harry?”

Harry started and checked his watch, affirming that it was indeed this late.

“Yes ma’am.” He said softly.

“It was a pleasure having you, Mister Potter.” Augusta told him, and held out her hand. Harry took it, unsure what to do, then caught a glimpse of Neville in the corner of his eye miming a kiss. He bent over her hand and placed a kiss in the air just above it, and straightened to see Augusta nodding with approval.

“Shall I owl you a book on manners and protocol?” Harry nodded fervently.

“Yes, please. Thank you! And thank you for having me today. I really enjoyed myself. Neville is so nice and clever.” He emphasized the complimentary words. Augusta inclined her head.

“He is a credit to his name.” She agreed, and Neville looked as though he really could not take any more shocks to his system that day. “Run along: see Harry out, Neville.”

“Yes Gran.” Neville kissed her cheek then escorted Harry out of the house and down the lane.

They walked down together, Harry bursting with happiness and unable to stop touching his wand where it lay in his pocket.

“Magic! We’re magic, Nev!” he said, enthused. Neville grinned back.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?”

“Completely.” Harry affirmed. They reached the end of the lane and stood awkwardly, both toeing the ground a little, until Neville suddenly flung his arms around Harry and hugged him tightly. Harry paused a moment, then brought his arms up and hugged his godbrother back.

“I’m so glad you came. And that we’re friends. We’re friends, right?” Neville pulled away, suddenly quite apprehensive.

“We’re friends!” Harry agreed, grinning. “You’re my first magical friend, and you’re my godbrother! It’s totally brilliant.”  
They stood in silence another moment or two, then Harry shuffled again and withdrew his wand and waved it in the air thinking Knight Bus, please. A moment later and it screeched to a halt in front of them. Neville hugged Harry again, spontaneously. 

"Bye, Harry." he said shyly, and Harry hugged him back briefly.

"I'll write you tomorrow!" he promised, climbing onto the bus, Neville's shy smile the last thing he saw before Stan Shunpike swooped down on him with his canned spiel.

* * *

  
After Harry had left, Neville turned to go up the stairs, but stopped when he heard his Gran clear her throat. Somewhat reluctantly, he he took a deep breath and went back to her, where she was still seated in the living room.

“Yes, Gran?” he asked, fearing a lecture on his deportment, articulation, and behavior. To his surprise, she looked sad,and worried.

“I feel we need to talk.” She said, patting the divan next to her. Neville went and sat, nervously folding his hands in his lap, then unfolding them to tap his fingers together.

“It has been…brought to my attention…that perhaps I have not been altogether fair to you over the years.”

Neville’s eyes widened in surprise, but he remained silent. He knew his Gran, and that she would not take kindly to having her train of thought interrupted until it was well and done.

“Neville,” she appeared to be beginning again, “I fear I have resented you for much of your life. Oh, not when you were born. You were such a bright child: Frank and Alice doted on you, quite rightly, and your accidental magic started very young; you had your first minor episode shortly before, well…” she trailed off, “before the Lestranges attacked.

“The Healers couldn’t do anything for your parents, and for a time we feared the same applied to you. You had been, after all, also held under the Cruciatus curse.”

Neville’s eyes widened in shock at the proclamation, but he held his tongue. Augusta was lost in her reminiscences now, eyes tearing up a little at the procession of memories in her mind.

“You were as affected as they were. In those days, all three of you were extremely agitated, but completely unaware of anyone’s presence. Your mother tried to hold you as you both screamed, but neither of you really even seemed to notice anything but your own pain. In the end, I resigned myself to the loss of my entire family. A week after the attack, you started to notice the Healers, react to their presence…and mine. I should have been ecstatic, but I was so focused on my son and was convinced he would snap out of it next. After all, if an infant was recovering from the Cruciatus, surely a fully trailed Auror could overcome it.

“I neglected you, letting a hired nanny take over your care as you continued to improve, and eventually started to resent you, because you weren’t Frank. Once I finally determined that they would remain in their state forever, I started to become more involved in your life, and I wasn’t welcome at first. You had changed from a bright, talkative boy to a silent, frightened one. You didn’t speak another word from the incident until you were almost four. By that time I was convinced you would never get better. Once you began to speak again, all I saw in you was Frank’s characteristics. I tried to keep you from being yourself because I wanted so badly for you to be Frank’s son. Somehow I forgot that you are Frank’s son, always has been, and always will be.

“Neville, I have been harsh, even cruel at times, ignoring your own gifts, and have tried to force you into being someone you’re not. I’m surprised you tolerate me at all. I’m so sorry, Neville.” Augusta was composed, but her eyes were still welling up. At the end of her speech, a little sob crept into her voice.

Neville, having taken her hand partway through, now rubbed it gently, compassion in his face.

“I love you, Gran.” He said softly, and Augusta sobbed a little again. “Sometimes I was resentful that you were so hard on me, but I’m still sorry that Mum and Dad aren’t here. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the grandson you wanted.”

“No, no, Neville,” Augusta faced him, now holding both his hands in hers. “You are already the grandson I always wanted. You always have been. I just didn’t see it in my arrogance, pain, and blindness. Please forgive me. I shall endeavor to be a better Gran to you than I have been.”

Neville abruptly burst into tears and flung himself into her arms. “I love you, Gran.” He managed, buried in her embrace.

Augusta looked shocked, but returned the hug, holding him tighter as she closed her eyes and a look of utter relief crossed her face. “I love you too, Neville.” She said fiercely, squeezing him again for good measure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that this has been so tardy. Life's been busy. I'll make an attempt to start posting more regularly: we'll see how that works out!
> 
> Anyhow, not terribly much happening in this chapter, just some plot development, really.


	6. A Successful Catalyst Provokes Resultes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry getting information from Mrs. Figg led to him sending a letter to Sirius Black.  
> Sirius Black wasn't an idiot.  
> Amelia Bones wasn't an idiot, either.  
> Fudge is an idiot, but Amelia knows how to handle him. Sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a tad short, but I figured y'all would like a short update now rather than wait for a longer update who-knows-when.

Sirius Black was lying on the floor of his cell, early in the morning on August First when a white snowy owl landed on the outside of his barred window.

  
He didn't move; gaunt, eyes closed and chest barely moving with his breath. His limbs were spread out across the thin mat on which he was lying, clearly soaking up the warmth of the sun in his frigid cell, even in his sleep.

  
The owl barked, sharp and annoyed. Sirius's eyes opened slowly, then he turned his head toward the window when she barked again, eyes blinking in astonishment. The owl pulled the parchment around her leg - he hadn't noticed the letter till then - out of its loose tie, cocked her head, stared him straight in the eye, and deliberately dropped the rolled parchment onto the floor of his cell. Sirius blinked; the owl hooted imperiously. Sirius cleared his throat - a gravely, harsh noise, as though he hadn't spoken for years, and scooted over the floor to pick up the letter.

  
He held it in both hands, face a study in confusion as he turned it over and over again, studying the outside.

  
The owl barked and he started violently, clutching the letter to his filthy chest.

  
"All right, I'll read it already." he grumbled, voice creaky with disuse. Carefully, only touching the very edges with his fingers, he unrolled the letter and began to read, angling the page towards the morning light.

_Sirius Black_

_My name is Harry Potter, and I'm told you are my godfather, but told Voldemort where to find my parents, and killed Peter Pettigrew.  
__Why did you do that? I would never let anyone hurt my friends, or try to kill anyone, not even my Aunt and Uncle, and they used to be awfully mean to me._  
_All I want to know is the truth. What did Voldemort do to make you betray my parents?  
If he was threatening your family I guess that would make sense, but my parents _ died _.  
I will _ never _forgive you for that, but I still want to know why you did it._

_Harry Potter_

A tear rolled down his cheek.

"No." he whisped, finishing it and beginning to read it again, "you shouldn't ever forgive me. My fault. My fault." he began keening and rocking back and forth, his deadened happy memories making the unpleasant ones far more powerful than they would be normally. The owl shuffled her feet and ruffled her feathers and Sirius looked up abruptly.

"You must be his owl. How old is he? Is he starting school this year? Who is he living with?" the questions came out in a rush on one breath of air. The owl clacked at him, fluffing up to twice her size and turning away.

"Please, don't." he begged her, hands outstretched. "Please stay. I didn't betray his parents, it was Peter. Peter, our other friend; he betrayed us all."

The owl turned back towards him, and Sirius could have sworn she was weighing his claim for veracity before she slipped through the bars of the window and fluttered down to the ground next to him. She cocked her head at the letter then looked at him and held out her leg, hooting imperiously.

Sirius spread his hands helplessly. "I don't have any parchment or ink." he told her, "But I'll get word to him later. I'll have to ask the guards for some and for permission to send it. They might not let me for awhile, but I'll get it eventually."  
The owl eyed him again, then with a few strokes of her wings, she lifted off the floor, then landed on his shoulder and preened his hair a little. Sirius made a small choking sound, then; a cautiously, fearful hope on his face, reached up and petted her feathers gently.

"I suppose I should try to get out of here." he mused, still petting her, face relaxing with the touch of another living being, "Never got a trial. Don't think so anyway. Didn't do it. Should be able to get out." The owl clacked softly in his ear. He chose to take it as approving.

 _"Who could get me out?"_ he wondered, thinking of several people, then dismissing half his ideas. They were mostly dead or too unpleasant to ask - the latter variety being his family members, mainly.

A thought suddenly occurred to him along with a vague memory of a chubby face and a bowler hat outside his cell. A stubby hand tossing a newspaper at him - not once, but occasionally. _"Every Hallowe'en,"_ he thought, thoughts cloudy and slow.  
One of those newspapers he'd read and thought, _"Good for you, Amelia."_ What was it? Why did he think that?

 _"Amelia."_ he thought hazily. _"Four years ahead of us in school. Hufflepuff. Order of the Phoenix. Auror. Brother killed in a skirmish."_ his thoughts suddenly backtracked. "Auror." he breathed. "She got head of the DMLE a few years ago. Last year? She got it. Owl!" The owl spasmodically tightened her claws in surprise, then relaxed again and fixed him with a gimlet gaze.

"Amelia might help me. I need you to take a letter to her!" The owl clacked dismissively and flew off his shoulder to land by the parchment, giving it a meaningful look. Sirius slapped his forehead in dismay.

"Right. No ink or extra parchment." he sighed and rubbed his shoulder where the owl had gripped him overly tightly and brought his hand away with a red smear on it. He stared at his hand dumbly, mind trying, trying so hard to work through the fog the Dementors had created, till suddenly it clicked and he scrambled for the paper and sat down in front of it, gently flipping it over to reveal the blank back of the parchment. He tugged off his shirt and squeezed the skin around one of the owl's puncture marks, making blood well up. It was, helpfully, on his left shoulder. He dipped his forefinger into the blood bubble and lowered it to the parchment, thinking of his next words. Finally, he started to draw letters carefully, but ran out of blood before he was done with one word; his shoulder refused to produce any more droplets.

He sighed and held his left arm out to the owl.

"Would you...?" he asked, gesturing to his hurt shoulder and then his arm. The owl eyed him, then stepped up on his arm and squeezed it, very tightly. Sirius shuddered a little, then let out a long, quavery sigh when the owl stepped off his arm to the floor, leaving behind several little welling pricks.

"Thanks." Sirius flashed a facsimile of his old, charming smile at the owl and resumed writing his short note. He then tugged his shirt back on, rolled up the parchment, and retied it around the owl's leg.

"Would you take this to Amelia Bones, Director of the DMLE, please?" he requested. The owl clacked at him again, then launched herself into the air. She swooped around the cell a few times then flew straight at the window turning herself sideways to fit through the bars at the last second, then vanished around a corner of the building. Sirius watched her go with longing in his eyes, then, as a Dementor rounded the corner trailing mist and misery behind it, he slumped to the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest and holding them tightly.

The Dementor stopped at his cell, tasting the positive emotions inside and Sirius's mind went foggy. The memory of the owl and his possible freedom faded slightly, happiness, anticipation, and hope leaking from the memory like color leeching out of an old robe.  
He tucked his face between his drawn up knees and began to weep.

* * *

  
Amelia Bones sat at her desk in the office of the DMLE, that sunshiney morning in London, sipping at a scorching hot cup of Earl Grey tea and reading through a four inch thick stack of reports. With each one, she read through painstakingly, fetched a blank piece of parchment, left a note on top, and then either flicked her wand to send it flying in the air to land in a filing cabinet, or directed it to a different stack on the table by the cabinet.

  
She'd just gotten to the second to last report when her enchanted window opened, and counter to the laws of physics, a white snowy owl flew through and landed on the perch by her desk. Amelia, accustomed to the Magical Owl Redirection System  which allowed owls to make deliveries to all offices in the building through their underground, enchanted windows, didn't break her stride.

  
She sipped her tea, finished her last two reports, then straightened in her chair, fists in the small of her back to facilitate her stretch, and two loud cracks sounded as her muscles relaxed. She then turned towards the owl which, contrary to the typical behavior of a Post Owl, was still waiting on the perch rather than having dropped off the message in a small basket and left.

  
The owl held out her leg imperiously. Amelia eyed it, curious, and cast a series of spells and charms at the owl and parchment. Neither owl nor letter registered as bearing harmful curses, spells, or enchantments, so Amelia went to the perch, and removed the letter. Curiously, the writing was on the outside of the parchment. She unrolled it, and flipped it over to the ink-stained side, then she gasped and her face turned sorrowful and aged.

  
"Oh, poor little Harry Potter." she whispered, reading the accusatory words of the orphan to his unfaithful godfather, followed by his little impassioned plea to just know why he'd done it.

  
She was confused, however, and set the letter down on her desk and turned towards the owl.

  
"This is addressed to Sirius Black." she mused, "Why did you bring it to me?"

  
The owl fixed her with a disgusted look and fluttered over to the desk, landing carefully without disturbing any of the woman's papers, then carefully reached out a clawed foot, picked up the parchment with it - almost overbalancing in the process - and flipped it over.

  
Amelia leaned forward, eyes alight when she saw the faded writing on the other side, and seized the page, scanning the message.

  
If she had looked sorrowful and aged before, that was nothing compared to her face as she read, then re-read the short message.

  
_"Amelia_  
_Not guilty. Never got a trial. Help._  
_Sirius"_

  
All the blood drained from her face and it took on a ghastly, tinged hue. She dropped the parchment from nerveless fingers and shoved her chair away from the desk. She stood, wavering, and staggered to the other side of the room.

  
"Everyone knew." she whispered, "It was obvious. He sold them out to You-Know-Who. It never even occurred to me to attend his trial; there were so many! How could I go to all of them?"

  
She laughed: high, shrill and utterly devoid of humor.

  
The owl barked at her and she jumped a little, then leaned against her office door and stared at the owl.

  
"There has to be proof of something." she whispered.

  
"I can check if he got a trial. If he didn't, then he's entitled to one, and we'll know after that if he's guilty or not. We can ask! We can check!" She shrank away from the owl's uncannily intelligent and accusatory gaze.

  
"Satisfied?" her voice rose, filling the room. "Stop looking at me like that!" she ordered, "Just go!"

  
The owl fixed her with another glare, then tugged a blank piece of parchment down onto the flat surface of her desk. Amelia blinked.

  
"Right. I'll write him back, tell him I'll see if his claims of not receiving a trial are true, and if so, then I'll make sure he gets one."

  
The owl huffed approving and returned to her perch with a long hop, aided by a frantic beat of wings. This time she did dislodge papers, and Amelia sighed, then smiled again at the touch of normality that the owl behaving like a normal Post Owl brought.

"You're too clever to be a post owl." Amelia told the bird as she sat down again at her desk and dipped her quill. "You must be someone's familiar. Harry Potter's?"

The owl looked satisfied and preened her feathers daintily, going over the same one three times before moving on to the next.

Amelia shook her head and pulled the parchment towards her and scribbled steadily for several minutes, brow creased with anxiety.

Finally, she sanded the parchment then rolled it up with two more blank ones, tucked a few quills and stoppered ink bottle into a small, cotton bag, and returned to the owl perch.

"Would you like to take these back to Sirius Black or shall I send for a post owl?"  
The owl clacked condescendingly and held out her leg towards the DMLE Director who huffed a small sound of amusement in return, and tied the sack and parchment to the owl.

"After this delivery I'll send a post owl." she told the white bird who nipped at her hair and flew back out through the improbable window.

Amelia slumped back into her chair and dropped her arm over her eyes.

"If this is true..." she trailed off, unable to continue her line of thinking. A vision of emaciated, broken Azkaban prisoners paraded through her mind anyway, but she shied away from imagining the brash, overconfident, but sweet young Sirius she had known to those wretched creatures.

Abruptly, she bounded for her feet and headed to the archive, determined to find proof one way or another that Sirius Black had been denied his right to a trial.

Two hours later she was sitting in her office again, tears streaming down her face, a single piece of parchment in her hands. It was the only proof that Sirius Black was indeed incarcerated; his name on a list of prisoners who were batch-transported to Azkaban prison. In the court records there were otherwise no mentions of his name in regards to any judicial proceedings: not even a single recorded censure of Under-Age Use of Magic.

As far as the law was concerned, Sirius Black was innocent, and would continue to be until proven guilty.

Amelia took a deep, shaky breath, and wrote out a series of official documents authorizing Sirius Black to be released, under armed guard, to Saint Mungo's for treatment, and another to be a summons for the Wizengamot to meet for a confidential hearing.

Just as she finished, the snowy owl swooped into the office again; a rolled up parchment in her talons. Amelia snatched it with shaking fingers and spread it out on her desk, absorbing the information written in shaking letters on it.

  
Her eyes widened as she reached the end, and her face went stern and hard. She scooped up the letter and went storming off to find the Minister.

* * *

  
"Hello Minister Fudge." Amelia stood in front of his desk and shook his outstretched hand firmly.

"Director Bones! Take a seat!" he said jovially, clearly in a cracking good mood for once.

"What's the rush about? Madame Umbridge tells me you displaced my two o'clock to see me, not that I mind, just between the two of us." he leaned in closer. "That blasted Weatherby's trying to get me to sign some document that allows him to tinker with muggle stuff. Again." he rolled his eyes and settled back in his seat.

Amelia bit back a sigh. How had they elected such a moron into office, again? Oh, yes. He'd been the polar opposite of Bagnold, whose presence in the Ministry reminded the country on a daily basis that the Ministry had been utterly useless in stopping Voldemort, which led to an _eighteen month old_ doing it for them. Utter _idiocy_. She forced a smile onto her face.

"I have excellent news for you, Minister!" she said brightly, "But it's of an extremely confidential nature. It must remain secret for its full, positive impact on your tenure to have an effect."

Now that got his attention, she noted. His eyes were gleaming with avarice and that one little spark of intelligence which had let him bluff his way through his campaign.

“Do tell.” He all but purred. Amelia leaned in closely, then paused, and with real concern, quickly stood and flashed out a series of detection spells. She found five, from various sources, and broke them with an intentionally violent backlash of magic which would hopefully deter the culprits from placing eavesdropping spells again.

Fudge looked pale.

“Who placed those?” he demanded, shaken. Amelia shook her head.

“No way of knowing. Minister,when was the last time you had your office swept for bugs?”

Fudge looked pensive, then shrugged.

“Umbridge is in charge of all that.”

 _“I bet she is.”_ Amelia thought with vitriol, then pushed it aside.

“Minister.” She caught his attention again, scooting her chair closer to her desk so that they could talk more quietly, “What would you say to righting a mistake of the past administration? Of granting an innocent man his freedom? Of showing the entire wizarding world that you are a fair Minister, devoted to keeping the public safe and protecting their rights? To getting an increase in tax money this year without raising taxes?”

Fudge looked rapt, his face beatific as he pictured this paradise.

“Minister,” she said, letting her voice be low and comforting as she had learned to do to sway recalcitrant suspects and obnoxious politicians, “there is a man, possibly falsely imprisoned, who would be very important to Harry Potter. He would be very grateful, I am sure, if the actual guilty party were found, if this man were freed. The man we have imprisoned was a close friend of the Potters. Wrongfully accused - nay!” she paused for the drama, “this man never ever received a trial, thanks to the ineptitude of your predecessor.”

Fudge was hanging on her every word, and outraged on Sirius’s behalf, though he didn’t know it yet. That spark of intelligence showed up again.

“If there is any question that he might be guilty, we must have his hearing in a private Wizengamot session.” He said firmly. Amelia breathed a sigh of relief: that was the best route. Avoid the media firestorm until she could control the information flow. The listening charms she’d found were actually a boon to her now. She lowered her voice even more.

“Minister, we must carry this out in absolute secrecy. No one must know the identify of this man: not even your Undersecretary. You never know when someone might be listening. And if it were released to the press prematurely? There would be a furor of incalculable magnitude!”

Fudge was nodding to her words.

“Who is this man?” he inquired. Amelia took a deep, fortifying breath.

“Minister,” she said very clearly, and very firmly, “You must promise to hear me out and not jump to any conclusions until I am done. You must promise to not let your preconceptions cloud your better judgment.” How it irked her to be forced to cajole a man into doing his job correctly, but it was working; she saw it in his face.

“I received a letter today, from Harry Potter’s familiar; a snowy owl. She brought to me a letter, from Harry Potter, but addressed to this inmate of Azkaban who may be innocent. Minister, now is when you must listen to the entire story without interruption.” She censured him upon seeing his face light up with a thousand as-of-yet unasked questions. He nodded, reluctantly, and she went on.

“I was confused to receive it: inmates don’t have their mail screened; only the outgoing mail is checked. But on the back of this letter, were a few words written in the inmate’s blood, he was so desperate to get his plea to me. They said, “Amelia. Not Guilty. Didn’t get a trial. Help.” So I checked. I searched the records for two hours. I asked an Unspeakable if they had been removed: they had not been. This man, it is a proven fact, never received his right to a fair trial. He was moved to Azkaban and has been left there nearly ten years, and he may be innocent. In fact, I know the name of the potential criminal for whose crimes this man has been framed.”

Fudge was practically quivering with excitement, but his face was oddly solemn.

“Tell me.” He said.

Amelia’s fortifying breath was more like a full body shudder now, but she sat and looked Fudge dead in the eye.

“Fact: we know that this man was not given a trial. No matter what else I say, you will not try to block this man from receiving his trial, nor attempt to sway the Wizengamot to vote him guilty counter to the evidence presented. And we will use veritaserum.” Fudge nodded distractedly.

“Yes, yes, I do so swear. Now.” His eyes glimmered. “Tell me the story.” He was clearly itching to be in the know; the secret party of two who would correct the past. Amelia gave him a little grin; almost genuine.

“Almost ten years ago, the Potters cast a Fidelious on their home…” she began, and Fudge was putty in her hands.

* * *

Later that day, for Amelia Bones, Director of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement was not about to let a potentially innocent man sit in Azkaban a moment longer than she had to, apparated to the shores of the North Sea, where a nondescript shack awaited her.

Counter to its disreputable appearance, two smartly uniformed Aurors stepped out to meet her, wands at the ready.

“Papers and authorization.” They said calmly, not changing their protocol regardless of their boss being the visitor. Amelia produced her own official warrants to make the trip to Azkaban, plus an official script from Minister Fudge, authorizing her actions without detailing them. Both documents pressed the need for secrecy. Amelia raised her arm to show them an invisibility cloak.

“I'm transferring an inmate. This is part of a top secret case. The guards will not know who was taken; you will not know who they are. The inmate will be stunned and under the Body Bind curse under the cloak. You will not attempt to divine the inmate’s identity, or you will be Obliviated.”

Her Aurors nodded solemnly, and Amelia graced them with a small smile.

“Good work keeping up protocol. You do that no matter who comes, even with a member of the Wizengamot or the Minister himself.”

“Ma’am.” One of the Aurors, the young Kingsley Shacklebolt offered her a tiny half bow of respect, and Amelia nodded back, and strode to the boat.  
It was self-steering, and automated. As soon as she had sat down, the boat had taken off in the water at inhuman speeds. She was grateful the spell had been developed; as little as ten years ago, Aurors had rowed it manually and the trip took hours.  
However, today the boat took less than half an hour to reach the bleak island in the middle of the North Sea, and she had to blink her eyes hard to keep her eyes from defocusing as they approached it. The charm in the boat did allow one to see through the Unplottable spell cloaking the island, but it was still hard to see the it unless one were right on top of it.

A few minutes later, the boat having slowed to navigate the intentionally treacherous rocky sea floor, she was at the gates, and a repeat of the document exchange and lecture from Amelia occurred, and then, she was escorted to the Warden’s office.  
She didn’t know why it was called that: there was no set Warden. She supposed whoever the highest ranking Auror on guard was would stand in for the title. In any case, it was Alastor Moody behind the desk. She grinned as she stepped towards him, then sighed, unsurprised, when his wand jabbed her under the chin.

“What did you say when your brother was found?”

Her eyes went distant and she cursed Moody a little for making her remember this. She responded, and her voice was soft and distant.

“It’s a mercy he didn’t live.”

The wand vanished, back to wherever the paranoid old bastard kept it. “Constant Vigilance.” He rumbled, then embraced her in a rough hug.

“Good to see ya, Amelia.” He held her out and eyed her.

“Fudge giving you trouble?” it was so probable but untrue that Amelia was startled into laughing.

“Quite the opposite.” She cut a sharp grin in his direction. “He’s collaborating with me on this one. But - “ she held up her hand, “It’s confidential. I need to see the ledgers, to cast a privacy spell to last through the next month.”

Moody nodded, eyes undeniably curious, though he didn’t question her.

Amelia located the proper name in the ledger, and cast a spell to add it to the larger network of all documents pertaining to Sirius Black which were being obscured and collected for use in the trial.

“A map with the prisoners’ names and locations?” she requested. Moody handed one over, getting a little grim.

“Don’t get yourself in too deep, Amy.” It wasn’t a warning. It was a benediction, coming from him. Amelia strode out.

“I won’t.” She promised over her shoulder, and went in search of Sirius Black, patronus - a lithe, dangerous shark - swimming before her.

She followed the map, checking with her eyes and spells occasionally till she stood in front of his cell, a Dementor lingering just outside the reach of her Patronus, and she looked inside.

Her heart sank; it was worse than she’d imagined. On her way in, she’d heard screaming, shouting, obscenities being hurled. The Lestranges were having a quiet conversation across the doors. Avery had been ranting at Mulciber. Black? Black was a limp pile of dirt and rags, but he was ashen beneath the filth. He was skeletal, worse so than the Death Eaters in his cell block, and his chest was barely rising and falling with his breath.

"Black." her voice was barely a whisper as it caught on the lump in her throat that was making it difficult for her to breathe, let alone speak. She cleared her throat to try again, but the pile of rags and filth which was - presumably - Sirius Orion Black stirred, then unfolded to reveal the man, emaciated and shaking with weakness standing before her. There was a spark of intelligence in his eyes which relieved Amelia.

 _"A mercy or a pity he came through sane?"_ she wondered, then shooed the thought out of her mind before she could wander down that particular mental pathway.

"Amelia Bones. You work quickly. It was just this morning that I wrote to you. I think. Time moves strangely around Dementors." his impossibly hoarse and weak voice floated between them. She supposed his vocal cords were damaged, if not destroyed, from a decade of screaming, and internally winced, then grew angry.

"You could have ended this years ago by simply asking for a trial, Black." she told him, voice low and controlled. "Did you want to spend a decade in Azkaban? Was it penance of some kind? If you are truly innocent, why did you let yourself languish here for so long? Damnit, Black, answer me!"

He was blank and still, and for a moment she thought he would not answer, but slowly he lifted his hand to his chest and clutched at the fabric.

"In my chest, the moment I heard, something tore inside me. I couldn't breath. The pain...it gripped me. When I found Pettigrew and he escaped, all I could feel was this... mad hysteria that all of this was because of me. I convinced James to switch secret keepers. It was supposed to be an extra level of protection but that cowardly spineless traitor took the information straight to him! All these years around the dementors...they don't take unhappy memories you know. Every moment they aren't fogging my mind, that anguish is as real and crippling as it was the moment the wards fell. My idea. My fault. My fault. My fault."

By his last words he had collapsed to the floor, arms around his knees, rocking back and forth as he keened out his grief. Amelia sighed and stunned him.

Per her words to the aurors on the shores of the North Sea, she returned from Azkaban, his stunned and bound form levitated behind her, securely hidden under the invisibility cloak. She apparated with him moments after setting foot on dry land and with an escort of two aurors, deposited his sleeping form in the secure wing of Saint Mungo's with Healersunder the strictest of confidentiality vows.

* * *

Fudge leaned across his desk eagerly.

"Tell me..."

Amelia cut him off with a warning finger laid against her nose and quickly case her detection spells. Once again, they turned up five eavesdropping charms, and she broke them a violently as possible, adding extra power to overload the backlash. Vindictively, she hoped the casters would end up drooling into their hair for week.

Fudge read the look on her face and mustered up some indignation of his own.

"More...? Who would dare? The utter brazen..."

"Minister." Amelia interrupted. "I believe that if you step outside the office one of the perpetrators may be there...suffering from a severe case of magical backlash.

Fudge nodded and crossed the room surprisingly quickly for a pudgy man and opened the door. Amelia watched with unmitigated glee as his face moved from shock to outrage.

"How dare she. The unmitigated gall!" his voice started out low then quickly rose with his anger.

"Aurors!" he bellowed, bringing the two on guard in the hallway trotting into the antechamber between the hallway and his office - an antechamber which was, incidentally, the office for the Minister's Undersecretary.  
Fudge pointed an angry, wavering finger at the twitching, unconscious form of Dolores Umbridge where she lay slumped on the floor, blood dripping from her nostrils.

"Take this woman into custody on charges of espionage against the Minister!" he ordered angrily. "Search her belongings and question her. Find her cohorts!" he began to turn away then squared his shoulders and turned back.

"Make sure everything done is absolutely scrupulously within the bounds of the law. We don't want her getting off on a technicality."

The two aurors looked surprised but managed to conceal it well enough, Amelia judged. They quickly and efficiently bound the unconscious woman and removed her from the antechamber.

Amelia nodded with satisfaction at the Minister's actions "Well done!" she told him as they returned to his office and seated themselves.

Fudge looked uncharacteristically...well, intelligent if Amelia had to be honest with herself. She supposed he would have had to be somewhat intelligent to get himself elected. Perhaps holding the highest office in the land had made him complacent?  
Whatever the cause, Fudge was far more on form now, even agitated. Amelia settled herself in her chair and assumed an air of complete confidence.

"Now that the main unpleasantness is done..." Amelia graced him with a little smile, "Black is interned under privacy vows and armed guard in Saint Mungo's. The Healers estimate he will be fit to stand trial in under two weeks."

Fudge looked happily surprised at the news. "Far better than the one month estimate for the typical long-term Azkaban prisoner." he mused, then paused, a touch of confusion on his face.

"Er, Bones, how does one summon a confidential quorum of the Wizengamot? I've never done it myself, you see, only ordered it to happen..." he looked deservedly sheepish, but Amelia very intentionally retained her look of confidence and professionalism.  
She pulled a parchment over and jotted down a quick form letter then slid it back to Fudge.

"Copy this with the correct names in the blanks, then seal it with the Minister's seal and red wax. Send them out the morning before the trial. Cast a privacy ward on the parchment to insure they don't talk about the trial before they arrive. Another will be cast over the courtroom after they do."  
Fudge nodded at her and scanned the letter. Amelia got up to leave, started to dismantle the privacy ward, then thought better of it and left it intact.

"Amelia." she paused at the sound of Fudge's voice.

"Will you help me discover who else has been eavesdropping? Perhaps you could...advise me from time to time. You're a very sensible woman. Very sensible indeed."

Amelia nodded briskly.

"Yes to both, Minister." she tried to make her voice a bit more gentle. "Good day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably because HP was written for children, but it's totally obnoxious how utterly incompetent and stupid the adults in the wizarding world are. I've chosen to give them slightly more common sense than they exhibited in the books.
> 
> As always, your reviews are like sweet ambrosia to me. I'm at least 1,000% more motivated to write when I know you guys want to read more!
> 
> And I've settled on my pairings now, so no use suggesting them to me, anymore. Thanks for all your suggestions!


	7. What Doesn't Kill You (Makes You Confused)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fudge learns some responsibility, Amelia doesn't have any time for your shit, Harry is confused, Neville is a good friend, and Sirius struggles with his emotions.

Harry spent the two weeks between his visit to Neville in late July and the sixteenth of August in a manner which, prior to this summer, was unprecedented.

He did his small chores, perhaps helped Petunia with breakfast (her eyebrows shot up in shock every time he offered), and learned to take absolutely secret delight in how uncomfortably politely the Dursleys treated him.

Dudley still tried to take a swing at him every day, and Harry had to subdue the urge to dodge, to run, to hide, but his cousin never managed to get that fist close to Harry's body.

Vernon, on the other hand, was still terrifying. Harry couldn't shake it, and woke up on a regular basis thrashing his way out from under the covers, which after one of _those_ dreams, felt a little too much like someone _(Vernon's damp, fleshy hands)_ holding him down.

It was full summer, and in England that meant it was usually warm, often hot, and slightly less frequently damp than was the weather's wont during the majority of the year.

On his birthday he had a visit to the Longbottoms with small gifts consisting of a book of everyday Charms from Augusta, an illustrated guide to common magical plants from Neville, and an owl from Professor McGonagall bearing a photo album of his parents and their friends. All the gifts - but especially the photo album - brought tears to his eyes that Neville pretended not to see, and had Augusta unobtrusively passing him a handkerchief. He resolutely put the photo album away to look at later, but he went back to the Dursleys' hours earlier than usual, gifts tucked carefully into his satchel.

The rest of the time Harry woke up early and snacked, read his books or climbed a tree, or did both simultaneously, and practiced the most useful looking spells under his breath with a twig in hand 'till he was sure he'd got the wand movements just right.

Once or twice a day, he'd practice them in the privacy of his locked bedroom and stop once he'd gotten a couple of positive results.

He learned to lock and unlock doors; he learned three different silencing spells which blocked out noise in a variety of one-way or two-way directions; he learned a tripping jinx (if there weren't bullies at Hogwarts he'd eat his new, ugly black wizard hat).

For lunches he stuffed apples and sandwiches and bags of crisps in his pockets and darted to the park or the library to munch on a bench and meet up with Jana and Eloise.

They brought their library books, extra hairbands on their wrists and nail polish in their pockets.

They sat in the park or outside the library and read out loud to each other while Eloise painted Harry's toenails or Jana braided Eloise's hair, and Harry taught himself that he didn't have to hide every time he saw a big-boned boy or man with blond hair.

Some afternoons he caught the Knight Bus - now always with a cap pulled low over his forehead; one old lady weeping over him in gratitude was _enough_ , thank you - and spent lazy hours repotting plants with Neville or trying out his newly learned hexes on the sly on Neville's uncle Algie.

On these visits he would be summoned, inevitably, to Augusta's sitting room, or she'd find them in the greenhouses or wheedling snacks out of the house elves, and be poked into standing up straighter. She'd cast a stern eye over him and dispense arcane bits of knowledge such as which forks to use in a hypothetical situation, or to whom he needed to nod his head upon passing in the Alley.

Harry, suddenly blessed with an abundance of approval with each bit of knowledge he retained and demonstrated, positively glowed under the attention.

* * *

When he kissed Augusta's hand in farewell and ran, clumsy with a growth spurt back to the delights of the gardens and fields, Augusta watched him go and measured how much weight he'd put on, and how much new height he'd gotten, and wrote about it to Minerva, who'd asked her to make sure he was well.

On the occasions where he stayed to dinner, she had the elves add nutrient potions to his mashed potatoes and creme brulee, and worried about the fact that he had no way of knowing that the potion-altered taste of his food wasn't normal.

She wrote to Minerva about that, too.

* * *

Twice, Neville's Gran let him go with Harry to the muggle world, with pounds traded from galleons at the bank crowding his pockets.

Harry always told him he brought too much money, but how could this paper be worth anything, anyway? He preferred the weight of coins - the pounds and tuppence and other names Harry told him like Neville'd be able to remember - to the colorful designs on that stuff which definitely wasn't parchment, but didn't feel like paper either.

On those days, Harry brought funny clothes for him to put on, and they climbed onto the Knight bus and wandered around in stores with strange, glowing orbs lighting up the insides, and ate food with strange names like _chips_ , and _hamburgers_ and once, an experiment on both their parts, _schwarma_.

They walked past a box that suddenly lit up with colors and people and sound, and Neville squeaked, hiding behind the much smaller Harry, and quietly demanded to be told _Who gave the muggles magic?!_ And Harry laughed, and dragged Neville outside, and told him about _science_ and _electricity_ and something called a _video_ camera.

Neville wasn't convinced the muggle world had anything to offer until Harry, suddenly struck with several things he needed to remember, pulled out a little pad of paper and something he called a _pen_ and jotted down his list with no blots, no vial of sticky ink, and no need for a drying charm or blotting sand.

Harry laughed again when Neville demanded some of his own, but he took him into a shop that gleamed too bright and white, but had an entire _aisle_ of different colors and types of pens that somehow carried their ink _inside_ them.

When Harry dropped him back at the Manor - and he always accompanied Neville all the way home - Neville hugged him tightly before the Knight Bus jolted away and thought to himself _"Maybe...just maybe when we get to Hogwarts, he'll keep on being friends with me."_

* * *

 

Fudge sat down heavily behind his desk as Amelia entered his office, but accustomed to the routine by now, he merely raised a thin eyebrow in that corpulent face and waited for her to perform the detection charms.

There were two, and Amelia, as was her habit, broke them viciously and with as much backlash as possible, then raised a secrecy ward.

"Amelia." he sounded plaintive. "We know he's innocent; can't we just let him go?"

"The evidence is conclusive, yes, and if this were a normal case, we could." Fudge looked dismayed.

"In fact," Amelia continued, "I would prefer that to be possible. It would make it far easier to find Pettigrew."

Sirius Black had talked himself hoarse, stumbling over his words and misplacing sentences in his efforts to let the DMLE know _everything_ about the end of the war.

"This isn't a normal case." Fudge finally agreed with the deepest of morose sighs.

Amelia, as was fairly common over the last two weeks, was in complete agreement with Fudge. It was quite disconcerting.

"Quite." she agreed. "No trial; public and Wizengamot outrage ensues. Black's life would likely be in danger, not to mention trust in the government."

Fudge sat up straighter and looked worried.

"How do we be sure he isn't convicted?"

This, too, was a valid concern, and one Amelia had considered at length. There were Death Eaters walking free, and some of them were sitting in the Wizengamot. Even if there hadn't been, there were witches and wizards who had agreed with You-Know-Who's views, but hadn't ever been marked. Sirius Black's scads of information had contained completely verifiable proof that the likes of Nott, Malfoy, and Macnair couldn't have possible been under the Imperius.

Amelia, remembering the absolute chaos at the end of the war, was regretful and unsurprised that such miscarriages of justice and successful misinformation had occurred.

"We'll make it political suicide for anyone to vote against him," she said, shaking herself out of remembrance, "and it'll have to do."

Fudge smoothed out the wrinkles in his robe, one she'd seen him wear eight times now - something he never would have done before he stopped accepting Malfoy's "gifts" - and stood. Amelia took his offered hand and shook it briskly. The new lines in the Minister's face were visible up this close, and he looked thoughtful; almost dignified.

 _"This is how he got elected."_ Amelia realized. _"He was sincere at the time."_

Then she let herself out of his office and returned to work, promising herself she'd keep him thoughtful and sincere for the rest of his term.

* * *

 

" _Ahem_. August sixteen, nineteen-ninety-one, Courtroom Three; Minister Fudge presiding; Auror Moody acting as Bailiff; Undersecretary Davies acting as Court Scribe; Amelia Bones acting as impartial mediation; full Wizengamot present."

Undersecretary Davies - _a far more competent and less offensive specimen than Umbridge had been,_ so mused Minister Fudge - finished reading out the official notice to begin the proceedings for the trial to determine the guilt of Sirius Black.

The defendant in question was sitting in the middle of the courtroom calmly and unbound, an auror just behind his left shoulder, his barrister to his right, and Amelia Bones on the floor between him and the seated Wizengamot.

She unrolled a long parchment with gravity and turned to face the accused.

"Sirius Black you have been detained in Azkaban prison for nine years, eight months without trial, under assumed guilt of being a Death Eater with all associated crimes, as well as for the murder of Peter Pettigrew, the illegal use of a blasting charm in front of muggles, and the murder for thirteen muggles. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty." his answer was immediate. The wizengamot froze as one; even the small background noises of rustling robes and shifting on chairs was suddenly, totally absent from the hall.

"Will you submit to questioning under Veritaserum?"

"Yes." his answer was, again, immediately forthcoming and without any hesitation.

"Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot," Amelia turned to face the rows of seated officials, "I call Healer Ashwin and Barrister Aldred to the floor to verify that Defendant Black is not under the influence of any anti-veritaserum potions, and that he is not Occluding to resist truthful testimony."

There was no objection. The entire hall seemed to be frozen in disbelief. The Healer and Barrister descended from the Witness gallery to the floor; the Healer completed her scan in a moment, nodded to Amelia, and glided to her side to verify that the bottle of Veritaserum was untampered with.

Recieving the Healer's affirmation that the Veritaserum was court quality, Amelia deposited three drops into Sirius Black's mouth and stepped out of his line of sight so that Aldred could maintain eye contact with Black throughout the questioning.

"What is your full name?" Amelia asked.

"Sirius Orion Black."

"Where did you attend school?"

"Beaub..." he choked on the word and then, red in the face, amended his statement: "Hogwarts."

The Wizengamot shifted and quiet murmurs broke out at the visible proof of the Veritaserum's efficacy.

"Are you, or have you ever been, sympathetic to the views of the self-styled Lord Voldemort?"

"No."

"Are you now, or have you ever been a Death Eater?"

"No."

Now there was quiet murmuring coming from within the rows of the seated Wizengamot.

"Were you the Secret Keeper for James and Lily Potter?"

"I was not."

"Did you kill Peter Pettigrew?"

"No."

"Did you cast the Blasting Charm which resulted in the deaths of thirteen muggles?"

"No."

Amelia stepped forward and administered the antidote to Sirius.

"Barrister Aldred, will you confirm if the defendant at any point Occluded during the questioning?"

"He did not, Director Bones."

"Thank you, you are dismissed, Barrister, Healer."

Amelia crossed the courtroom and retrieved a slim box from the evidence files.

"This box contains the wand of Sirius Black. I shall perform _Priori Incantem_. If the defendant did cast the Blasting Curse at Peter Pettigrew, it should be the last spell on the wand. As the court can see, this evidence box has been sealed since the arrest of Mister Black."

She unsealed the box, green numbers dancing above the box confirming her statement that it had not been opened since November 4, 1981.

Her subsequent _Priori Incantem_ confirmed that the last ten spells cast by the wand did not include a blasting curse of any kind.

She replaced the wand into the box, re-sealed it, and turned to the Minister calmly, not a hint of triumph on her face.

"Minister, I move to have all charges against Sirius Black dismissed in light of the incontrovertible evidence."

Cornelius Fudge sat up straighter, and his face was not nearly so blank and professional and Amelia Bones'.

"Motion carried. All opposed?"

There was dead silence. Several wizengamot members looked displeased at the state of affairs, but Amelia knew that they had absolutely no grounds to oppose the motion without casting doubt upon their own loyalties.

Minister Fudge stood up in his box and addressed Sirius Black directly.

"Mister Black, we find you not guilty of all charges. Your vaults and properties are restored to you; we furthermore recompense you 15,000 galleons per year in light of your lost wages and for personal suffering. The ministry will release a statement to inform the public of these proceedings. You are not required, but requested, to comment.

The bailiff will return your personal affects to you.

Dismissed."

It had not yet been half an hour since the Wizengamot convened. Sirius Black stood, shakily, and made his way to the Bailiff and retrieved his wand with utter disbelief and joy on his face before departing the courtroom.

* * *

 

**August 17, 1991**

The Daily Prophet was delivered in the wee hours of the morning all over Great Britain. The front cover held a photograph of an absolutely stunned looking thin, dark haired man being handed a wand by an auror. In the photo he took it reverently with both hands and caressed with absolute awe.

The headline was needlessly sensational, and the article written in extremely flattering terms towards the current Minister and the newly freed Sirius Black.

Ex Minister Bagnold and ex DMLE Director Bartemius Crouch Senior were mentioned twice each in disparaging terms.

"!" said the Wizarding World.

No one particularly paid any special attention to the small column on the right side of the page which, for the eighth edition in a row, notified the public that there was a new strain of Blue Babbling Disease which was being carried by rats, and that any pet rats or vermin caught by any individual should be brought to the Ministry to be examined for any traces of the disease.

The Ministry asked that the rats not be killed outright, but stunned and delivered to Thaddeus Rackspurn in the Department of Control of Magical Creatures for testing.

* * *

 

Harry Potter woke up to the insistent scratching and pecking of a dun owl at his window. He yawned and made his way over to it, blinking sleepily, and let it in.

"Wait. You're not Copernicus..." he trailed off then shrugged and took the rolled up newspaper and enclosed letter from the owl. It nudged him, then eyed him balefully when he blinked at it in confusion.

"I...I don't know what you want. A treat?" the owl hopped from his arm to the desk where his bottomless bag lay, nudged at the bag, and hooted imperiously.

"...money?" Harry retrieved several knuts and a sickle and held them out. The owl snatched up three knuts, eyed him balefully again, and flew out the window.

"Oooookay." Harry said, clearly of the opinion that it was far too early in the morning to be figuring out what a strange owl wanted with _money_ , and retreated to the warmth of his bed, paper and parchment in hand.

He had barely sat down when another owl landed on his windowsill and pecked at it. Harry made an inarticulate noise and stalked over to the window to let it in.

"What, do you want money, too? Why does an owl want money, anyway? S'not like you can...oh. Hi." he belatedly recognized Minerva McGonagall's owl mid-rant. The owl blinked at him, completely unimpressed.

"Er, I'll take that letter...thanks. No, I'll reply later, you can go...bye?"

The Professor's owl, much like herself, was perfuctory and didn't stick around for idle chatter. Harry left the window open and returned to his bed... _again_.

He snapped open the newspaper, briefly gawked at the moving photo, then scanned the article. His face gradually got paler and paler as he read through it, then very, very red.

Hedwig clacked disapprovingly and took to the air to avoid the crumpled up and flung paper, then settled on the post next to Harry whose face was undergoing a series of rapidly changing expressions.

"What." when he finally spoke it was utterly devoid of inflection. Then,

 _"Hedwig."_ as though she could give him all the answers and facts. She fluttered down to the bed next to him and he reached for her with shaking hands. She submitted to his clumsy petting with good grace.

"I don't know...I didn't...is it even true? He _betrayed_ them, but it says he _didn't_ that he didn't even get a _trial_...It's been _ten years_. I could have lived with him instead of the _Dursleys_...if _he_ didn't, then who did? _Hedwig_." he was aware and uncaring of his incoherency, fingers carefully gentle in her feathers as his voice shook.

He sat and stared and petted Hedwig mechanically as his mind whirled. Eventually he flopped backwards onto the bed and flung an arm over his eyes.

 _"Hedwig_ ," he said in tortured tones, "My life is _unbelievable_ , and this cannot _possibly_ be normal, even in the _wizarding world_."

He lay in dramatic repose wondering if there was any logic which could explain the utter madness which was his _"Surprise, your parents weren't drunks and also you're magic, and in addition you saved the world, and you should know that your godfather didn't betray you after all!"_ life.

He dourly wondered for a moment if anyone in the Wizarding world would even blink if he showed up to Hogwarts in one of Eloise or Jana's dresses, or if they'd crack it up to a quirk of the _Boy-Who-Lived_. Or if maybe those dress-like robes were all Wizards wore and he'd be considered odd for wearing trousers on the weekends.

Seemed like the sort of bizarre thing that he was beginning to suspect the Wizarding world was full of.

(He suppressed the persistent feeling he'd had since Eloise had first made him wear a dress and have a tea party that he'd rather stay in a dress and be mistaken for a girl.)

And with that he decided it was time to sit up and... _oh_ , McGonagall's letter. He snatched it off the bedspread and opened it carefully - breaking sealing wax could tear the parchment - hoping that McGonagall would have something sensible to say.

_Mr. Potter_

_No doubt by now you've received today's Daily Prophet and a letter from your godfather, Sirius Black. As I was not present at the trial I could not tell you on what grounds he was found innocent, but as Amelia Bones - an honest and fair woman - was the Mediator_ _for the trial, I must conclude that Sirius Black was, indeed, innocent._

_Mr Potter, I promise you that Black will not harm you. Whether you see him or not is your choice, and it will be respected. He came to me this morning to request that I put him into contact with you, and I told him what I have told you. I know what his letter to you contains, and as unbelivable as it may be, his words are true._

_You may write to me with any questions or concerns and I will answer to the best of my abilities._

_Regards,_

_etc._

Harry read and re-read the letter, taking some measure of comfort from McGonagall's reassurance. He imagined he could hear her speaking the words to him, with her lilting Scottish accent and no-nonsense tone.

 _Teachers_. He'd usually had good experiences with teachers and librarians, and he was so glad that Professor McGonagall appeared to be one of those adults who listened to him and was kind.

 _"Maybe_ ," he thought, heart shaking a little with hope, _"Sirius Black will be like that, too."_

Then he recalled that the Professor had mentioned Sirius Black had sent a newspaper _and_ a letter, and he went scrambling around on the floor to find it.

* * *

 

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore blinked at the Daily Prophet lying next to his kippers on the breakfast table.

"Minerva," he said absentmindedly, still scanning the front page.

"Headmaster." she acknowledged,

"Wasn't Sirius the Potters' Secret Keeper?"

"Turns out he wasn't." Minerva McGonagall responded, eyeing Dumbledore and his lack of a shocked or outraged reaction.

"And he's not a Death Eater; I'm glad the boy wasn't." Dumbledore cut up some more kippers and considered this with a bemused, vague expression on his face.

"I suppose it was like pulling teeth to make Barty admit that someone he arrested wasn't guilty." he commented, then,"Blue Babbling Disease. Hope it isn't too serious an outbreak. Make sure none of the incoming students are bringing a pet rat, mm?"

Minerva McGonagall stared at her employer who was blissfully unaware of her scrutiny.

 _" Bartemius Crouch wasn't even involved in the trial. There is something wrong with that man's brain._ " she thought, just now realizing there may be a pattern to the odd behaviors and unexplained moments which had cropped up over the last ten or so years.

 _"But what is it, exactly, that's wrong?"_ she pondered it a moment longer, then dismissed the idle thinking. She'd figure it out after she finished her paperwork.

* * *

 

Harry finished Sirius Black's letter and smoothed it out carefully, despite his shaking hands, onto the nice desk the Professor had had the elves bring.

Petunia had called him to breakfast a half hour before, but he'd stayed in his room, reading the letter over again, then the article, then the letter - all in the name of trying to fit this new point of view into his mind.

Sirius's letter had been filled with self-recrimination, pleas to see Harry, plans to make up for ten years of missed birthdays and Christmasses, offers to take Harry in, and a few pieces of strange advice like _"Avoid rats at all costs"._ Harry supposed it was because of that Blue Babbling strain, but still, the multiple underlines and vehemence seemed a little...over the top.

He stood up, jittery and restless, and realized that he wanted to talk to someone about this. He didn't even consider the Dursleys, and felt a flash of uncomfortableness over the fact that he didn't want to talk to Eloise and Jana - not that he could anyway, seeing as they were muggles and it was against the law.

Briefly, he weighed the rudeness of showing up to the Manor without invitation with the urgency he felt writhing under his skin, then made the judgement call in favor of rudeness, and fled out the door.

He was numb to the world in general. He couldn't have said whether the weather was fair or foul, couldn't have said who was the conductor for the Knight Bus. He certainly had no recollection of putting on a jumper or picking up his satchel and wand. The lurches and shaking of the bus were so common-place by now that he held himself onto his seat by habit. As he walked down the lane to the Longbottoms', though, he blinked and the world began to come back into his awareness.

The Manor was a place which had always been _safe_. He let out a long, shuddering breath which was equal parts relief and apprehension as he raised a hand to knock on their formidable front door.

He had meant to knock twice, but the door swung in unexpectedly after his first knock. He nearly followed his arm through the door, but managed to regain his balance with minimal undignified stumbling.

"Mister Potter be wanting what? It be very early in the morning."

Harry looked down, then farther down, and finally saw a small, greenish-gray creature in what looked like an oversized tea cozy standing in the doorway. He wasn't particularly well versed in non-human expressions, but he thought this...person? looked exasperated.

"Um. Hi. What are you? Not to be rude or anything but I've never seen anything - anyone! Sorry! like you before. I don't think. Well, I know. I never have. Sorry. I'm Harry Potter."

The creature looked even more unimpressed.

"I being Reginald, head House Elf of this house."

Well that didn't answer any of his questions, really. What was a House Elf? Other than a small, greenish being with poor grammar, that is. Harry swallowed the further queries and refocused on his primary goal for being here.

"I'm sorry I'm here so early, but if Neville's up I'd really like to see him." he shifted his weight from foot to foot, failing to suppress the nervous habit. The elf stepped to the side of the doorway.

"Be coming in." it (he?) said with resignation. "Be waiting patiently in the sitting room. Reginald will be waking the house."

Harry ducked his head and wiped his feet on the front mat before following Reginald and his absurd, perfect posture through the hall. He was summarily escorted into a small, tidy room with chintz sofas and patterned wallpaper. He recognized it from a few of Augusta's summonings when she would preside over a fragment of education on his visits.

The elf departed on silent, bare feet the moment Harry was over the lintel, leaving the youth to his own devices. Harry paced the room a few times, peeking out the window nervously on each pass, and finally sank onto the stiff cushions of of the sofa nearest the door. He tapped his fingers together and attempted to still his mind.

The quiet helped, although it wasn't as silent as Privet Drive. He could hear birds outside, and a faint almost-echo of noise which he assumed was coming from inside the house. Kitchen noises, he thought, and wondered if it were elves or humans making food.

He lapsed into a reverie, staring out the window, and thus was caught entirely by surprise when Neville entered the room.

"Are you all right?" Harry came to with a start and turned his head to find Neville standing, hands in his pockets, but a slight tension written on his round face. Harry started to speak, then sighed and waved the letters and Daily Prophet in his friend's direction. Neville's brow creased a little in confusion, but he took them and read them slowly, perching on the edge of one of the sofas as he did so. Finally, he looked up, clearly on the verge of speech.

"You see?" Harry sighed and cupped his face in his hands.

"Do...do you want me to get Gran?" Neville asked, a little awkwardly. "I'm sure she'd be better at this than I am." Harry shook his head slowly, letting his hands fall to his knees.

"No... not right now." he decided. "Can we just...sit? Or maybe go repot plants for awhile?"

Neville smiled. "Sure. My cacti have grown enough that they need larger pots, and..."

Harry followed Neville out the door, already beginning to be soothed by his godbrother's chatter and familiar behavior. He could deal with this later. Augusta would have suggestions for him once he'd calmed down enough to think.

* * *

 

Sirius Black paced the floor of his hotel room incessantly, his thoughts spinning. Six weeks away from the Dementors had not been nearly enough to repair his memories and emotional damage, although the Healers had done their best.

 _I sent that letter_ hours _ago!_ he thought, spinning around to begin another agitated pass of the floor.

Thinking of Harry brought a flood of names and faces of people he _couldn't_ go to, _couldn't_ talk to, because they were either dead or inaccessible.

 _Marlene McKinnon_. Killed in a raid. He would have liked to have seen her and even faced the brunt of her caustic teasing right about now.

 _"Stop sulking. It's unattractive, even if you've certainly earned the right."_  he could imagine her telling him. It hurt. Not as much as remembering James and Lily, but still: he hurt with the remembrance.

And _oh._ James and Lily. Of all the things to not be capable of forgetting, seeing his friends sprawled across the floors of their house topped the list of _"Things I'd Kill to Forget_."

(He deliberately suppressed the urge to give into his rage at Pettigrew. His room would never survive it.)

He _did_ permit himself a moment to be briefly, incandescently  _furious_ with Remus. For never writing, for never questioning, for never thinking to _ask Sirius if it was true...!_

But then he slumped to the floor, shaking, because _oh Merlin he missed them all_.

And Harry still had not written back.

He jerked himself upright and attempted to shake away the melancholic grief.

He'd go bother Amelia about Pettigrew again. See if he'd been caught. And then... _(Harry)_ ... he _wouldn't_ bother his godson again. He'd let the boy come to grips with the changes and _wait patiently_ for him to be comfortable enough to contact his godfather. He _would._

 _My entire life consists of waiting_. he thought bitterly with a twist to his lips. Waiting to be old enough to go to Hogwarts. Waiting to be old enough to escape his parents. Waiting for the war to be over. Waiting for Dumbledore to come bail him out. Waiting for Remus to come demand the truth through pale, pinched lips. Waiting for his trial. Waiting for the Dementors to leave. Waiting for his trial again. And now: waiting for people to contact him because for some reason, after more than nine years of prison and torture, _he_ had to be the mature one and _wait_ for the people who'd wronged and abandoned him to be _comfortable_ enough to contact him.

 _Not Harry, though. Harry hadn't abandoned him._ he reminded himself. Harry was just a child. Had been just an infant.

He schooled his anger away from his godson again and stepped through the floo to harass some answers out of Director Bones.


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot progression happens. Adults continue to be way more logical and proactive than Rowling wrote them.

After four days of impatience and turmoil, Harry had still not contacted Sirus. The latter of whom spent his time writing daily - sometimes hourly - letters to Remus, only to burn most of them without owling them. Fortunately for his harried nerves, on that fourth day, a thin, tired-looking red-headed man brought a stunned rat to Thaddeus Rackspurn to be tested for the infamous "Blue Babbling Disease. The rat was promptly turned over to the DMLE after failing the test.

Sirius apparated to the Ministry within seconds of learning the information, in such a hurry that one boot was untied, and both were on the wrong feet.

Amelia met him in the lobby, looking as impassive as always.

"Where is he?" Sirius demanded in a low snarl. "Let me see the traitor."

Amelia laid a cool, restraining hand on his arm.

"Easy." she cautioned, "Low voice, and for Merlin's sake wipe that boggart off your face. Come with me. _Quietly._ "

Sirius jittered in place a moment longer, agitated, then nodded and managed to relax his expression. Amelia eyed him for a moment, then nodded and led him to the lifts.

She was silent until it had started and they were alone, then raised her hand to silence him the moment he opened his mouth.

"He was brought in this morning." she said, and from her tone of voice they could have been discussion a particularly bland day. "He had been masquerading as a pet rat to the Weasleys, apparently since a week after..." she looked uncomfortable for a moment, "...the incident. He didn't hurt any of them, and the Weasleys have no idea that their pet is actually a Death Eater who would be the most notorious in the country if the truth were widely known."

Sirius clenched and unclenched his fists spasmodically, lips pressed together and trembling.

"And you won't let him escape." Amelia shook her head in response.

"Anti-animagus wards on his cell, and cuffs whenever he is taken out of it. The only reason we haven't snapped his wand yet is because we're waiting for the trial. What was odd was that he had two wands on him. One was registered to himself, the other to a 1945 graduate of Hogwarts - one Tom Marvolo Riddle - who seems to have completely vanished in 1947."

Her voice lowered, although they were alone in the now-stopped lift. "It greatly resembles the wand seen being used by You-Know-Who. I have aurors looking into it."

The lift doors opened and Amelia strode out onto the DMLE level. Sirius, however, remained inside, shaking visibly.

"He can't hurt you." Amelia drew the entirely wrong conclusions, and Sirius laughed - a hoarse, painful sound.

"M'not afraid of _him_ hurting _me_ , Amy. I'm worried that if I see him you'll be short one Death Eater prisoner and up one homicidal maniac in that cell."

"Would you prefer to come back another day?" Sirius gave her an incredulous look.

"I'm hardly going to be less _angry_ at the man who _betrayed_ my closest friends and framed me for murder in a _few days_ \- " he cut himself off with visible effort, then slid his wand out of his sleeve and offered it to Amelia with obvious reluctance. She took it gently, but continued to hold it where he could see.

"Just...take good care of that for me again. Don't snap it." his joke fell through, hollow, and his still-sunken eyes followed the wand with a peculiar greedy helplessness as she tucked it into her sleeve. Amelia's face was all compassion.

"Just until after you see him." she promised. Sirius nodded jerkily, then, regaining some of his old charisma, held out his elbow to her with a flamboyant toss of his cloak and a shadow of his old rakish grin.

"Shall we?" he asked, a bit too stiff to be natural. Amelia took his arm with an amused huff, and steered him through the offices down to the holding cells.

* * *

Harry blinked awake in the wee hours of the morning, briefly disoriented by his unfamiliar surroundings. He pushed himself upright and peered around through his haze of sleepiness before recognizing the guest room next to Neville's. Harry sighed, rubbed his forehead, and flopped back down on his pillows.

"Stupid nightmares." he muttered. "Stupid Vernon. Stupid brain. Stupid." he rolled over, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his stomach as he saw the letter from Sirius Black resting on his nightstand. His notebook and pens lay next to it, with half a dozen crumpled up aborted attempts to write back on the floor below it.

Harry closed his eyes and drew the covers up under his chin and lay perfectly still for a few moments before realizing that he was far too awake to drift back off to sleep until breakfast in a few hours. Annoyed, he sat up again and cast a glare in the general direction of Sirius's letter.

He padded off to the bathroom, pulling a robe around himself as he went to perform his morning ablutions. Once he'd relieved himself - as always, he avoided looking at his genitals while he did his business; they unsettled him in a way he wasn't equipped to think about - he popped his toothbrush in his mouth and stripped his clothes on his way to the shower.

It was an interesting blend of muggle and magical technologies. Or was it muggle at all? He wasn't sure. He'd thought that showers were a muggle invention, but realized he had no way to know for sure. The shower head looked very archaic, but the water pressure was strong, and had several settings. The hot water was unlimited as well. The tub also looked old, but in good shape. Merfolk and kelpies were carved in relief all over the outer sides, and the huge, webbed feet of the tub were, as Reginald the house elf told him with a sniff, grindylow feet.

Harry brushed his teeth and showered, taking what seemed to him to be a luxuriously long time in the tub. By the time he wandered back into his room, wrapped in one of the ludicrously fluffy towels, one of the Elves was waiting for him in his room, hopping impatiently from foot to foot.

"Mister Potter sir must be coming down to breakfast." it told him without preamble. Harry blinked, then glanced over at the clock.

"Seven already?" he said in a half panic and flew for the closet and threw on the first trousers and shirt which came to hand. The elf nodded approvingly at his haste and popped away quietly as Harry yanked on a yellow pair of socks.

Neville and Mrs Longbottom were already at the table when Harry skidded down the stairs and into the dining room.

"Morning, Harry!" Neville perked up when Harry entered the room. Augusta bestowed a small smile on him.

"How did you sleep?" she inquired.

"Morning, Neville. Well, Mrs Longbottom, thank you." he responded to them both, sliding into his seat. A serving of oatmeal and fresh fruit was already at his place, and after adding some sugar and jelly, he tucked in without fanfare.

They ate quietly, with only murmured requests to pass more fruit or toppings. Finally, Augusta cleared her throat as the dishes began vanishing from the table.

"Four days till school starts, boys." she said. Neville gulped audibly and slouched in his seat.

"Sit up straight, Neville," his grandmother said impatiently, then, "Harry, will you be staying with us till then?"

"I...I'm not sure." Harry said nervously. He swallowed the last vestiges of food in his mouth and pondered for a moment.

"I...I...should probably write Sirius Black back. Maybe visit him..."

"Invite him here." Augusta dictated. Harry blinked then looked up at her, relief on his face.

"I can?" he queried.

"Certainly. The man's been in Azkaban so long it's doubtful he should be entrusted with the care of a child."

Neville looked alarmed at the prospect of having the notorious Black in his home and started to slouch again. Seeing Augusta's gaze begin to slide his direction, he popped upright again resolutely. Harry nodded, slowly, determination showing on his face.

"Thank you, Missus Longbottom." he said with evident gratitude and pushed away from the table.

"May I be excused?" he asked, clearly eager to write the letter and be done with it.

"Not until you've finished." Augusta said, imperiously regal, but graced him with an approving smile when he picked up his spoon and tucked into his remaining porridge with renewed appetite.

* * *

Sirius was aware his moods were as changeable as Scottish weather. They always had been, to some extent, but since his exoneration and removal from Azkaban that mercurial quality had risen to new highs and sunk to new lows.

He pondered this as he rose swiftly out of the black hole of self loathing he'd been in, and skyrocketed into elation.

He held a letter in his trembling hands. A letter from his godson. A letter from his godson, who had written him back, and invited Sirius to come see him the next day at any time after nine o'clock in the morning.

Sirius read the letter again with teary eyes, noting the return address, (Longbottom Manor? So Frank and Alice raised him?) then carefully folded it along the creases and slid it into his breast pocket. Once the letter was safe and stowed, Sirius whooped loudly and bounded across his flat.

Remus might not care anymore (the bastard), but Harry wanted to meet him! Sirius cried and his heart soared.

_James' son._

He spent the rest of the evening frantically tearing through Diagon Alley, looking for the perfect gift to say "Sorry I missed all your birthdays and Christmasses due to incarceration." He rummaged through second hand shops, bookstores, and even - with a shudder - the apothecary with no success.

It was full dusk by the time he emerged from one of the myriads of side streets and alleys which ringed Diagon Alley, dejected and worn out from his failed shopping spree. The shops were closing down, one by one; lights going out and wardlines springing to life as their proprieters left. He padded slowly down towards the Apparation point, hands in his pockets, ignoring the stares and gawkers. They'd die down eventually, he was sure. And anyway, he'd gotten far worse than mere stares at Hogwarts when a member of the notorious Blacks sorted into Gryffindor.

A glimmer of gold caught his eye and resolved into a snitch barreling right for him. Reflexively, he snatched it out of the air and stared at it, wonderingly and confused. Seconds later, a portly, middle-aged man huffed up next to him, fanning at the air with his bowler hat.

"You caught it!" he said with obvious relief, gesticulating at the snitch in Sirius's hand. He took it from an unresisting Sirius, carefully manuevering around the fragile wings.

"It escaped as I was trying to lock up for the night." the fellow chuckled, tucking the snitch into a tiny wooden cage.

Sirius spun on the ball of his foot and peered in the direction from which the man had came.

"You sell brooms?" he asked absently.

"Do I sell..lad, I sell every kind of broom you could think of!" his friendly, brown eyes took on a calculating hue. "Do you happen to be in the market for a broom?"

Sirius smiled, slow and satisfied. "I certainly am."

* * *

 

Sirius Apparated to the end of the lane at Longbottom Manor, as was polite (in the old days, he'd have popped straight into Frank and Alice's lobby and hollered by way of announcing his arrival, he mused wistfully), and started down the lane.

He wondered what Harry looked like after all these years. He'd been such an adorable baby, with those huge eyes and curly, red locks. He snorted to remember the bows and flowers Lily had stuck to his bald head before he finally grew hair, and was momentarily frustrated by his inability to recall just why Lily put _flowers_ and _bows_ on his godson.

He dismissed it as trivial and whistled with a jauntiness that belied his nervousness. The broom slung over his shoulder helped with his false gaiety. Sirius had always found it difficult to stay too morose when he was walking on a fine day with a new broom.

Once at the door, he lifted his hand to knock, retracted it back to his side, then steeled his nerve and promptly followed his hand through the suddenly open door.

Sirius regained his balance quickly, his poise slightly less so, and bade his pride farewell as he skidded across the slick tiling.

High, childish laughter rang in his ears as he propped himself back upright with the broomstick and turned to face the diabolical creature who'd made Sirius fling himself so ungracefully across the hall.

His breath caught in his throat. He stared, resisted the urge to rub his eyes, and stared some more.

"You look just like James." he said, wistful and incredulous all at once. Wide, green eyes met his, and Sirius was face to face with his best friend's son.

"Hi." said the walking, talking James Potter clone.

"...hi." returned the hapless godfather. "Where'd you get that hair?"

The nonsequitor sparked another laugh from the child. "I've always had it, I guess." he said, touching the unruly locks self-consciously.

"No you haven't." Sirius contradicted him.

"I haven't?" Harry looked vaguely alarmed, and Sirius repressed the urge to laugh in his face, no matter how cute this kid's expressions were.

"You were born bald..."

"Bald?!" quoth Harry with clear dismay,

"And then it grew in thick, red, and curly - just like your mom's."

"Red?!" Harry said, more confused and disbelieving than anything else.

"Red." Sirius confirmed. "You weren't born a greeneyed monster either. You had these muddy blueish things for a few months. They didn't turn all the way green till you were, oh, six months."

Harry was staring at Sirius like a starving man at a banquet table.

"You get the green eyes from yer mum. James' eyes were sort of hazel."

Sirius abruptly found himself being dragged into a small sitting room and pushed onto the most ridiculously comfortable setee on which he'd ever had the pleasure of planting his arse. Harry - surprisingly strong for his small size - perched on the edge of a chintz patterned chair across from Sirius.

"Tell me everything you know about my mum and dad." he half commanded, half pleaded. "I don't know _anything_ about them."

Sirius blinked, surprised. "Frank and Alice didn't tell you about them?"

Harry looked baffled. "Who are they?"

"Frank and Alice Longbottom. This is their house; Neville is their kid. You grew up here, right?"

"No." Harry looked down at his hands. "I don't think they live here. Neville lives here with his Gran, and I'm just visiting till school. I grew up with my aunt and uncle. In Surrey." his voice was toneless, his face totally blank. Sirius recognized that tone and expression, having worn it most of his adolesence whenever the topic of families came up, and he raged inwardly to see it printed across James' face and written into Lily's eyes.

"If they aren't good to me, tell your old godfather and I'll hex them into next year." he put as much rougish enthusiasm into his voice as possible, while questions raged through his mind. Where were Frank and Alice? Was Lily's sister as bad as Lily always said? He'd never met Patagonia personally - if that was even her name. It was something with a P, at least - but Lily had gotten the same toneless note in her voice whenever she mentioned her sister.

Harry visibly brightened. "Can you tell me stories about Mum and Dad?" he reiterated his earlier request. "How did you meet?"

"It all started on the Hogwarts Express..." Sirius leaned forward, painting a vibrant mural with his words and piping Harry along with the music of his tale. The two lonely orphans, enchanted by the same story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, short chapter. It fought me on everything and then decided it needed to end at this point. Next chapter - Harry goes to Hogwarts!


	9. Into The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Neville make a (sort of) friend on the train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my new beta, Magnadementia, who poked me till I wrote, fixed many of my egregious errors, and facilitated a smoother style of writing. She rocks. 
> 
> There are a large number of direct quotes from Philosopher's Stone in this chapter. If you recognize something, it’s probably J.K. Rowling’s.

  
  


The four days between Sirius Black’s original visit to Longbottom Manor and the first of September alternately flew and crawled by. Sirius came to visit every day, arriving in the mid morning and leaving when Augusta imperiously chased him out, and the boys to bed. 

 

Harry and Neville stuck close together on the first of September. Sirius had reluctantly allowed himself to be persuaded not to accompany Neville and Harry to the Express, only relenting when Augusta pointed out it would turn the platform into a madhouse of terrified people, gawking onlookers, and ravenous press. 

 

In the end, Sirius said goodbye to Harry at the manor that morning, and Augusta took the boys at half nine, in order to avoid too much attention on Harry from the public. With the train entirely empty, they had their pick of compartments and after some dithering, settled into one near the prefects’ car. They heaved their trunks up into the overhead compartments, settled into facing seats, and stared at each other blankly. 

 

“I wish we didn’t have to come so early.” Harry sighed, anxiously kicking one leg. Neville shrugged, gazing out the window.

 

“Gran’s gone already.” he observed, sounding neither pleased nor unhappy about it. They stared out the window for a few more minutes. The earliest of the early birds were just arriving at quarter till ten; all harassed looking parents herding children, trunks, and animals onto the platform. A small child of indeterminate gender, perhaps six years old, was crying hysterically and clinging to an older boy who alternated between patting them on the head and attempting to foist them off on their mother. 

 

Farther down, two wizards were chasing a trunk which skittered away on dozens of tiny feet, lid flapping open and spilling robes and bottles every which way. A slim, blonde girl was laughing too hard to walk straight as she trailed the duo, picking up the vials and clothes as she went. Harry was riveted:  it was better than the telly -well, what little he’d seen, anyway. 

 

Everything about the wizarding world was fascinating and amazing. A solemn looking couple with one, stocky son had just arrived on the platform, their brightly colored clothing contrasting with their stern faces. All three had animated scenes of winged horses and trees blowing in the wind all over their layered robes, even though the decoration appeared to be embroidered on. Their boots were nearly knee-high and appeared to be scaled. 

 

Harry gawked at them a bit longer before his eye was caught by the trunk-chasing wizards, who had apparently caught the luggage in question and were hauling it back to the train, wrapped in writhing cords of leather. 

 

In a quieter section of the platform, an extremely blond family was standing, watching the proceedings with disdainful expressions, slowing gathering a group of people around them with similarly haughty looks. Some form of socializing seemed to be going on - the schoolchildren were all migrating to one group and the adults to another - but mostly seemed to be posturing, to Harry’s admittedly untrained eye.

 

The platform was quite crowded now, with families appearing through the barrier or in green whooshes out of the Floo every few moments, with no one seeming to leave. The train was clearly filling up as well; Harry and Neville could hear voices and movement outside their compartment, and a few people tried the door, though they left without testing the locking charm that Sirius had taught Harry the day before. 

 

The train whistled, long and deafening, and there was a scramble as the children still on the platform made for the carriages, and an enormous group of red-heads burst onto the platform and tumbled onto the train in a bizarrely coordinated heap just before the huge clock on the platform wall ticked over from 10:58 to 10:59. 

 

The train gave a great shudder and began to move a minute after that, parents waving, staring sternly, or simply leaving, and a great number of arms and hands were visible, waving out the windows of the train. Harry and Neville settled back onto their seats as the platform vanished from view and once more contemplated each other. 

 

“How long does the train take?” Harry asked Neville, as Neville could usually be counted on to know things about the Wizarding world which Harry didn’t, but were apparently common knowledge to everyone else. 

 

“All day?” Neville shrugged, appeared to feel the wrath of Augusta even from a distance of several miles at least, and straightened his posture to an almost alarming degree. Harry wrinkled his nose and stared out at the passing scenery, and thought that the train seemed to be moving very slowly - slower than cars drove on the motorway, he was sure. 

 

Harry fetched  _ Potions Ingredients and Reactions _ by Arsenius Jigger out of his bag after several minutes of silence and started taking notes - Sirius had ranted for an hour after he found out Severus Snape was the Potions instructor and was quite convinced that the man would be nasty and cruel to Harry and inclined to grade extra harshly based on some old school feud with Harry’s parents and their friends. Harry intended to excel in the class, or at least not fail miserably, as to avoid giving Snape ammunition to mock him. 

 

Sirius had been so adamant about Snape’s terrible temper and cruel words that Harry was quite nervous about being in his class. 

 

Neville was reading about herbology, his favorite hobby, and so time passed quickly. 

 

A rattling knock on the door jarred Harry out of his studying reverie just as he scribbled down a note that apparently aconite had two other names for the same, identical plant for no discernable reason. He blinked, disoriented, as Neville crossed the compartment and opened the door. Harry could see him stiffen as he saw who was outside, but Neville merely said “Malfoy.” in a neutral tone of voice and returned to his seat. 

 

“Longbottom.” the aforementioned Malfoy returned with a decidedly superior tone in his voice, and stepped inside, flanked by two, beefy boys a few inches taller and a few stone bigger than Harry.  

 

“Malfoy” was the blond boy from the haughty family of blonds that Harry had seen holding court on the platform. Mindful of his manners, Harry laid his book and notebook aside and folded his hands calmly. 

 

“How do you do?” Harry asked, determinedly not rising: Augusta had told him he was the social equal or better of anyone his age at Hogwarts, according to the convoluted social hierarchy of the wizarding world, which evidently meant he should stand for any lady, but not for a boy. 

 

“I heard Harry Potter was on the train.” Malfoy said, eyes peering curiously at Harry’s forehead. 

 

“Present.” Harry said laconically. Neville, across from him, was frozen in what appeared to be terror. Harry eyed Malfoy’s bookends who were doing nothing but standing silently and somewhat vacantly next to the blond. 

 

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. “And my name is Malfoy; Draco Malfoy.”

 

Neville made a very small squeaking noise. Draco looked at him. 

 

“Kneazle got your tongue?” he asked contemptuously. “I expect if we must have a squib at Hogwarts at least you’re a pureblood and know enough not to speak around your betters. My father told me all the Longbottoms have is more bravery than sense, but it looks like you lack both.”

 

He turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

 

He held out his hand to Harry, looking very self assured and pleased with himself after his threatening little speech, but Harry didn’t take it. 

 

“Neville helps me with the things I don’t know about the wizarding world and magic,” he said, fighting down a surge of anger at the boy who’d treated his first magical friend so poorly and seemed to think that would _ impress _ Harry, “and he’s my best friend, so I don’t think I want to hang around anyone who’d be so cruel to him.”

 

A pink tinge appeared on Draco Malfoy’s pale cheeks. "I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit more civil you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff and it'll rub off on you."

 

Harry stood up slowly, hands clenching to fists. 

 

“I would have been perfectly fine with being friends with you if you hadn’t sauntered in and insulted Neville, but you did. I wouldn’t have minded being friendly with you if you’d apologized, but instead you’ve good as said I’d end up dead if I didn’t do what you wanted. Why shouldn’t I report you to the prefects and professors for making a death threat?”

 

Harry crossed his arms and stared down Draco, despite his growing unease as Crabbe and Goyle seemed to grow even taller as they shuffled forward and loomed over him. 

 

“How dare…” Draco began, an ugly flush rising up his neck to meet the one blooming on his cheeks, but Harry interrupted him. 

 

“What, going to have your bodyguards beat me if I don’t go along with you?” he tried to raise an eyebrow insouciantly to match Draco’s casual arrogance, but couldn’t quite manage it and ended up raising both in a faintly quizzical expression. Neville stood up, too, just behind and to the side of Harry’s right shoulder and in a fit of uncharacteristic, suicidal bravery for the boy, drew his wand and let it rest by his side in Draco’s clear view.

 

“Send your friends away, sit down with us, be polite and get to talk to Harry, or leave.” Neville demanded, voice shaking only a little. 

 

Draco stared at them for a long moment, then jerked his chin towards the door. “Get gone.” he hissed, flushing again when his goons failed to understand his nonverbal command. Crabbe and Goyle turned and ponderously tromped out, and Draco sat down, crossing his ankles gracefully, and raised an eyebrow when Harry and Neville remained standing. Draco, Harry noticed in annoyance, could raise only one eyebrow. Harry glared at the compartment door as he closed and locked it and sat down across from Draco, Neville joining him on Harry’s side of the compartment. 

 

Harry pasted a smile on his face. “How do you do? I’m Harry Potter and this is my best friend Neville Longbottom. Our mothers were each other’s godmothers, you know, so if mine had lived and his was well, we would have been raised with each other. As it is, we’re still very close.”

 

Draco looked almost abashed by the end of Harry’s introduction.

 

“Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” he re-introduced himself, then looked annoyed when Harry didn’t react to his statement at all, but turned to Neville with an inquiring look. 

 

“H..his father’s wealthy. And advises the Minister, my Gran says. She also says,” Neville visibly braced himself, “his father was one of You-Know-Who’s top lieutenants and only stayed out of Azkaban by buying off the ministry.”

 

Draco leapt to his feet, face mottled with rage and his face screwed up horribly.

 

“How dare you?” he screeched, “Slander and lies! My father will have you in court for this, if he doesn’t duel you to the death for it!” and made as though to storm out.

 

“Oh, sit down.” Harry said wearily, privately thinking to himself that he’d never heard such high pitched noises nor seen such histrionics from his female friends, ever. 

 

Astonishingly, Draco sat. “It  _ is _ lies.” he insisted sulkily, glaring very hard at Neville. 

 

“I did ask.” Harry pointed out, which only had the effect of making Draco glare at him, too. 

 

Whatever Draco started to say was interrupted by a great clattering outside their door and a cheery call of “Anything off the cart, dearies?” when a smiling, dimpled woman slid open their compartment door. 

 

All three boys, united by their love of sweets and empty stomachs jumped to their feet and started rummaging through their pockets for change. Harry felt he’d quite like a Mars Bar, but the cart didn’t have anything he recognized at all. 

 

What she did have were Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.

 

Neville’s eyes widened as Harry hauled his bounty into the compartment and spread it across the seat. 

 

“Hungry, are you?” Draco said, returning with a single box of Bertie Bott’s and a few Cauldron cakes.

 

“No, but I’ve never had any of these and I’d like to try them all.” Harry returned, biting into a Pumpkin Pasty, which didn’t taste  _ bad _ , precisely - just very odd. “You can have whatever you want, too,” Harry offered, very generously in his opinion considering his personal feelings towards having food taken away from him. Draco declined, and Neville took the other Pumpkin Pasty and bit into it. 

 

After several minutes of eating sweets, Harry spoke up. “It appears all three of us can agree on something,” and gestured towards the piles of sweets.

 

Draco eyed him and the pile of food and sniffed. “As if, Potter. I wouldn’t be caught dead chewing gum.” which somehow broke the last of the tension Draco had brought into the compartment with him and startled a laugh out of Neville. 

 

“I suggest a rule for the rest of the train ride.” Harry said. Draco looked suspicious. 

 

“I’m not letting you slander my family.” he warned them, and Harry shook his head.

 

“That wasn’t going to be it. I was going to say that we can all say what we really think, but we can’t be mad and threaten to kill each other or start duels over it. If - when -” he amended, seeing the mostly one-sided glare between Neville and Draco “we disagree, we can talk about it. Civilly. Whoever can’t do that has to go.” 

 

Neville and Draco reluctantly agreed, and so the rest of the train ride was, if not entirely comfortable, then not horribly unpleasant either.

 

* * *

 

 

A truly massive and very hairy man with a loud, booming voice met the train, which didn’t arrive at Hogsmeade until past dark.

 

When Harry disembarked, Harry stopped dead, nearly causing Neville to run into him, and started in awe up at the sky.

 

It was pitch black and studded with larger, more numerous, and brighter stars than he’d ever seen before. They hung low and luminous in the sky, and a band of them - the Milky Way, Harry realized - were so thick across the middle of the sky that they were like a river of glowing silver. 

 

“Firs’ Years this way!” the hairy giant bellowed, startling Harry out of his reverie. He trailed along with the line of nervously chattering first years, craning his neck this way and that to watch the sky as he walked.   

 

He barely noticed when they reached the edge of the lake, and all the First Years were told to get into a number of small rowboats, in groups of four. Neville was quite nervous about getting into them, and had to be taunted in by Draco. They shared with a petite, brown-haired girl with light purple ribbons in her hair who, upon seeing Draco across from her, tried to get out, couldn’t as they’d already started, then went pale and silent and couldn’t be induced to say another word the entire ride across the dark lake in the rickety, wooden boats.

 

Not, at least, until they had their first view of Hogwarts across the water. The brilliant lights shining out of every window, reflecting off and dancing along the water made a hush go along the lake, as everyone became quiet in awe of their first sight of the castle, and the girl clapped her hands and sighed “Isn’t it amazing?” which not even Draco could disagree with.  

 

The little fleet of boats passed under a stone archway into a large, dark cavern that was in no way adequately lit by the sputtering torches at the bow of each boat, and came to a halt along a low stone quay.

 

They all disembarked onto it and trudged up a set of steps that led them out of the cave and up a hillside, the castle stretching above them to a seemingly impossible height. The giant man stopped at the doors to the castle and banged on them, once, twice, thrice, the sound echoing and reverberating. It was a stern looking woman who opened it, her brown hair streaked with gray and swept into a severe bun. It was Professor McGonagall; finally someone Harry knew.

 

“Thank you, Hagrid; I’ll take them from here.” she pulled the door wide open and led them into an enormous hall, so big Harry thought you could fit the whole of the Dursley’s house inside with room to spare. It was lit by torches, which weren’t bright enough to make out the ceiling high above, and stone all around from the walls to the flagging stones which made up the floor. 

 

The group followed her across the hall, past a beautiful marble staircase leading up, into a small antechamber. They entered as, and remained in a huddle, most of them staring about nervously. 

 

The Professor cast a steely eye over the crowd of children, but her eyes softened as she saw Harry and Neville in the crowd. Harry waved at her, a bit shy, and felt much less nervous with her presence.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.”

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever House becomes yours.

 

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

 

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Crabbe’s face, which had a bit of jam smeared across one cheek.

 

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."

 

Under that sweeping, stern gaze, Harry became very aware of the wrinkles in his robes and the part of his hair that always stuck straight up, and quickly tried to smooth both. Beside him, Neville did the same, though he only managed to muss his own hair more. He only half paid attention to her speech about your House being your family; he knew what family could be like and had no great hopes for one in school. 

 

Once the Professor had left the antechamber, a low susurrus of conversation sprung up. Harry caught bits and pieces of it.

 

“...Sorting...hurts…”

 

“...troll? ...lots of spells…”

 

Harry gulped and wondered what a troll was. He glanced over at Neville, who had clearly heard the same thing, because he looked as pale as Harry felt at the thought. 

 

Then, several students screamed - by the thump, one may have fainted -  and he heard a scornful laugh that could only be Draco from the opposite side of the room. Harry turned to see what was the matter and nearly leapt out of his skin.

 

A stream of pearlescent, transparent ghosts -  _ ghosts!-  _ were drifting through one wall towards the other in a straggling, clumpy line. They seemed to be arguing, and paid no attention to the students at all. What looked like a fat little monk was saying "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance--"

 

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost -- I say, what are you all doing here?"

 

A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first years.

 

Nobody answered.

 

"New students!" said the Fat Friar, smiling around at them. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"

 

A few people nodded mutely.

 

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar. "My old house, you know."

 

"Move along now," said a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

 

McGonagall had returned. She waited until the last of the ghosts had vanished through another wall then instructed the students to line up - “A neat, straight line, please; thank you,” and lead them out of the chamber, across the huge, echoing hall, and through an equally huge set of double doors which led to the largest room Harry had ever seen in his life. 

 

It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that hung in the air, brightly illuminating the four, long tables occupied by hundreds of older students, a table on a raised dais with - presumably - staff and teachers seated at it, and a simple wooden stool by the dais. The roof of the hall seemed to not be there at all - the entirety of it was a smooth expanse of black sky, dazzling with a breathtaking array of vibrant stars, just as it had looked when they were crossing the lake.

 

"It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History." Harry heard someone say, several places down the line. 

 

The students followed the Professor across the room in their untidy line, staring and gawking in all directions until they were lined up, facing the other students: forty pale faces stared at hundreds of curious ones. 

 

The four tables were set with glittering goblets and golden plates, and cutlery that seemed to be elegant, twisting vines turned straight to gold from their living state.  

 

She left them in their untidy line and strode up to the wooden stool, which Harry only just noticed was hosting a very battered old hat, which abruptly opened at a rip and burst into song! Harry marveled at the hat, not paying mind to the song at all and wondered where it kept its brain and if most magical objects were intelligent. The song ended to thunderous applause as quickly as it had begun and Professor Mcgonagall calling them up, one at a time, to wear the hat and be told where to go. 

 

Neville grew visibly more agitated as the list wound through the alphabet, and Harry squeezed his shoulder reassuringly when "Longbottom, Neville!" was called. He tripped twice on his way to the stool, and forgot to take the hat off as he ran towards the Gryffindor table, but he was beaming, and Harry waved at him in congratulatory manner.

 

Draco went to Slytherin, precisely as he’d said he would - the Hat shouted it out before it had even properly settled onto the boy’s head. Harry clapped politely as the blond strode smugly towards his new House table, and just a few moments later...

 

"Potter, Harry!"

 

Harry took a deep breath and walked up to the stool in the sudden, complete hush of the Hall and let the Professor put the Hat on his head.

 

"Well aren't you an interesting one. Plenty of brains, courage, cunning, and loyalty. You would come into your full potential in Slytherin." Harry heard the words without his ears, and felt a shuffling sensation in his head.

 

"Not Slytherin." Harry thought quickly, squeezing his hands together nervously, thinking of everything Neville, Augusta, Sirius, and even Draco had told him about the House reputation and how Slytherins were treated in the school. He did  _ not _ want that level of notoriety on top of his Boy-Who-Lived fame. 

 

"Are you sure?" the Hat asked, "You would be great there. In Gryffindor you'd make life-long friends, in Hufflepuff supported, but you wouldn't learn like you would in - RAVENCLAW!" and the last word was shouted out loud.

 

Ravenclaw applauded madly, and the other tables followed suit, with rather less enthusiasm, but Harry thought some of the Gryffindors almost looked mad as Harry walked past them to get to his new blue and bronze bedecked Housemates. 

 

"Welcome, Potter!" an older, stocky, brown-eyed boy with a badge jumped up, clapped him on the back, and ushered him to a seat between himself and a pleasant-looking girl only a bit taller than Harry himself. 

 

Harry quite missed the next few people being sorted as the jumble and hullabaloo surrounding his arrival at the Ravenclaw table took a few minutes to settle down, and by the time he remembered to clap for each of his fellow yearmates, "Zabini, Blaise" was being Sorted into Slytherin, and the elderly, bearded man at the center of the head table was standing, hands raised benevolently. 

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!" and then he sat down again, nodding and smiling at the students.

 

"Is he...a bit mad?" Harry asked the general air, just as he noticed that food had appeared on the tables as soon as the man - Headmaster Dumbledore, Harry realised - seated himself; Harry's eyes widened at the breadth and scope of it. It seemed as though the tables ought to collapse under the weight of all of it. There were roasts and potatoes prepared in half a dozen different ways, bowls of salads here and there, whole roast chickens, tureens of mixed vegetables, platters of sausages, and more new dishes appeared every time Harry looked in a different direction on the table. The aroma of it all hit his nose at once, a second after it appeared. The strongest scents were the roasted meats, but hints of steamed vegetable and butter and thick spices were evident as well. 

 

"Oh, yes." the boy with the badge said, serving himself up lamb chops and peas, "But brilliant. All brilliant people are a bit mad, I think."

 

Harry began ladling up portions of everything he could reach with his little eleven-year-old arms, as did most of the others in his year. The boy with the badge chuckled; Harry glanced up and flushed, seeing his attention was on Harry's plate.

 

"No, no, you're fine." the boy waved his hands placatingly. "All the firsties do it - I loaded my plate so full on my first day that I couldn't eat more than a third of it. I was only remembering, not making fun." 

 

Harry nodded hesitantly and resumed filling his plate. "I've never seen so many different types of food in one place before."

 

"And you probably won't, outside Hogwarts!" he said cheerfully, "The elves seem to try to make something for everyone and with all the students, that accounts for a lot of variety. I'm Robert Hilliard, by the by."

 

"I'm Harry Potter." he returned, feeling a bit silly introducing himself, since everyone had heard all of the First Years' names as they were sorted. 

 

"Padma Patil," said the slim girl to his left. A chorus of names from everyone in his vicinity followed, as first years announced their names, and older students reciprocated the introductions. Harry attempted to keep the dizzying whirl of names and faces straight before giving it up and focusing on his meal.

 

The food was truly excellent. Harry polished off his entire plate and was considering attempting to eat more when the dishes vanished off the table and a mind-boggling array of desserts appeared in their place. 

 

Padma and Robert both beamed and reached for the same bowl of chocolate mousse simultaneously, while Roger Davies, to Harry's right, went straight for a large cheesecake. 

 

"D'you like Quidditch?" Roger said suddenly, almost causing Harry to drop the piece of treacle tart he'd been maneuvering to his plate. "You've got a Seeker's build, and ours is graduating next year."

 

"Yes," Harry responded, "but I've never played."

 

"Been on a broom, or to see a game before?" Davies persisted. 

 

"My godfather taught Neville and I to fly, and he took us to a Hollyhead Harpies game. It was brilliant."

 

"Morgana's tits, stop trying to recruit the Firsties! Professor Flitwick won't let you bring them on the team, and you'll scare them off for next year." Hilliard scolded him. Davies shot him a disgruntled glare, then subsided and tucked into his cheesecake. 

 

"Just want the best team possible when I make Captain." he grumbled.

 

"Captain!" another 'Claw on Padma's other side hooted. "Bit early to be thinking about that, innit? S'only your first year on the starting string."

 

Davies pointed his fork in their direction. "I'll be Captain, Partington." he vowed solemnly. 

 

'Partington' snickered and turned his attention back to his plate.

 

"Davies is a bit Quidditch-mad." Hilliard confided in a deliberately loud whisper and winked at Harry. 

 

"Oh, my family's been wizarding as far back as records in India go," Harry heard Padma say to Partington. "My dad moved here in '82 for business purposes and my mother and sister and I joined him a year later."

 

"Halfblood, myself," another Firstie said. Terry, Harry remembered; because it rhymed with his own name.

 

"Halfblood too, I think." Harry said reflectively.

 

"No way!" yet another 'Claw declared. "I read that your parents were some of the most powerful wizards of their generation!"

 

Harry glowered and Hilliard turned on her viciously. 

 

"You just shut up with that prejudiced tripe, Hermani. My granddad's muggleborn and he's as smart and powerful as anyone, I reckon." 

 

"My mom was muggleborn, and she defeated Voldemort." Harry said defiantly, knuckles whitening around his grip on his fork. There was a synchronized gasp from the table; Hilliard flinched so hard he nearly fell off his bench, and Hermani Roshen gave a little shriek before composing herself and glaring twice as hard at Harry as before.

 

“You said his  _ name!” _ Roger Davies said, half outraged and half admiringly at the same time that Hermani insisted, " _ You _ defeated him!" 

 

Harry shook his head. "My crib and room were carved all over with burnt-out runes. Mum did something, and it overloaded them, and my godfather says that's got to be the only reason I survived." 

 

"Maybe she was an orphan, and Muggles found her." Roshan said, displeased. Harry wanted to agree with her for a moment, thinking that it'd be awfully nice to not be related to the Dursleys, then recalled the blood wards and shook his head.

 

"I live with mum's sister and family and they're as Muggle as can be." Harry insisted. 

 

"Let it go, Hermani," Davie interjected, nose wrinkled. "You always lose these arguments anyway."

 

The Indian girl turned away with a huff, pointedly turning her back to them and started a hushed conversation with a tall, slim boy, flicking her hair over her shoulder so it smacked Hilliard in the face. Hilliard's face reddened and he looked as though he were about to say something to her, but just then all the dishes disappeared off the table and a hush fell over the hall. 

 

"Ahern -- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

”First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of a pair of red-headed twins at the Gryffindor table who were grinning impishly.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.

"He's not serious?" he muttered to Hilliard.

"Must be," said Hilliard, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere -- the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least."

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!" And the school bellowed:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

　　Teach us something please,

　　Whether we be old and bald

　　Or young with scabby knees,

　　Our heads could do with filling

　　With some interesting stuff,

　　For now they're bare and full of air,

　　Dead flies and bits of fluff,

　　So teach us things worth knowing,

　　Bring back what we've forgot,

　　just do your best, we'll do the rest,

　　And learn until our brains all rot.

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Gryffindor, red-headed twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

 

All over the Hall, older students rose and began chivvying their First Years into neat rows and leading them off. Padma and Harry ended standing next to one another in the middle of the milling bunch of Ravenclaw First Years, Hilliard leading them out the door of the Great Hall.

 

All the First Years were breathing heavily from climbing the multitude of staircases between the Great Hall and the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower by the time Hilliard halted in front of a blank stretch of wall, adorned solely with a bronze knocker of an eagle's head. 

 

"This is the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower." Hilliard said, gesturing towards the knocker. "It asks a riddle, and if you can't answer it, you'll have to wait till someone else comes along who can." he lifted the knocker once.

 

"What asks but cannot answer?" asked the eagle in gravelly tones.

 

"A question." Hilliard responded.

 

"Correct." said the eagle, and a section of wall swung away from the rest of the wall on invisible 

hinges. Harry gaped at the wonders revealed within.

 

They stepped into an airy room, perfectly circular, the walls completely covered with windows wherever there weren’t bookshelves. On the far side of the room, across from the door was a statue of a woman wearing a diadem, and the windows were framed with swathes of bronze and blue fabric. The floor and ceiling were mirrors of one another - midnight blue flecked with constellations - and scattered around the room were chairs and couches. Narrow, intricately carved spiral staircases flanked the room on either side, disappearing into the ceiling and floor.

In the middle of the room, a tiny man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard stood on an ottoman, hands clasped behind his back, and a small smile on his face. The Ravenclaws scattered around the room, standing in six neat groups, leaving the First Years in their untidy clump facing the tiny man.

 

"Welcome back to Hogwarts, to the returning years, and welcome to Ravenclaw, class of nineteen ninety-eight. I am your Head of House and Charms Professor, Filius Flitwick." he said, the First Years fidgeting into neater rows as he spoke. 

 

"Behind me is a statue of our Founder, Rowena Ravenclaw. She was the foremost scholar of her day, and I expect each and every one of you to live up to her example by scoring no less than an EE average in every class. If your average drops below that, you will serve detentions with the prefects every day until it rises. If you are struggling in any class, I suggest you form a study group or ask your mentor for assistance."

 

Flitwick peered at them sternly for a moment, then relaxed into his half-smile again.

 

"Your mentor will be a third year student; this is because they are older than you by enough to advise you on all your courses, and young enough to be advised by their mentors in their OWL year; a logical arrangement. The notice boards on either side of the statue of Rowena will list your mentor, as well as House concerns such as prefect meeting times, Quidditch practices and games, official club meetings, and official study group times.

 

"Now: the staircases on either side of me are to the dorms and libraries. To your right and above the common room are the girls' dorms; to the left are the boys'. Your name will be on the door to your room, and your trunk has already been delivered there. The staircases going down are to the library and study halls; either will take you both places.

 

"You may ask prefects for assistance, but please do not monopolize the time of the fifth and seventh year prefects overmuch as they are preparing for their OWLs and NEWTs. 

 

"Fifth year prefects: Penelope Clearwater and Robert Hilliard," a slightly stout, blond girl stepped forward and inclined her head along with Robert.  

 

"Sixth year prefects: Ophelia Rushden and Gerard Willerby." the two could have been siblings; middling height, slim builds, and brunette, except Ophelia had a round face, turned up nose and blue eyes, Gerard's could be well described as "pointy" in every respect. 

 

"Seventh year prefects: Aro Woodbridge and Mizohu Yoshii." Aro was very tall, very blond, and very jovial looking; Mizohu was petite and pale-skinned with blue-black, short-cropped hair.

 

"Hogwarts' Head Boy this year is one of ours: Alec Bodwhin. The Head Girl is a Hufflepuff: Maxine O'Flaherty. The Head Boy, Girl, and prefects can take and assign points, and assign detentions. All which will be reviewed by the Head of House of the student in question before being approved or denied: you should assume that detentions will be approved, and show up to them unless told otherwise by a prefect.

 

"My office is located down the hall from the common room entrance: my office hours are posted on the notice board, and the fireplace in your prefect's dorm can be used to Floo my quarters or office in an emergency. If there is an emergency, go to a prefect and let them decide whether or not to contact me. 

 

"If you have any questions, you may ask a prefect as they escort you to your dorms." Flitwick nodded to the prefects, stepped off the ottoman, and made his way past the First Years to the door. Penelope and Robert stepped forward. 

 

"Girls, please follow me," Penelope said, and headed for the staircase. Robert raised an eyebrow and the First Year boys fell in line behind him, heading up the stairs. He led them to the next floor up, which had a curved wall lined with five doors, each with a plaque above it stating a year, and a plaque on it with a list of names. 

 

"The next floor up has the sixth and seventh year dormitories and the individual prefect rooms." Robert announced. "Alec Bodwhin, the Head Boy, shares a suite of rooms on the first floor of the main castle with the Head Girl." Your mentor can be found in their dorm; the second door from the right. Your dorm is the far left." 

 

He led them to the door which announced "First Year" with all four first year boys' names on the door placard and they all filed inside. 

 

Their dormitory’s colors, carpets and ceiling matched the common room below. The four-poster beds were set to the gentle curve of the wall, between the windows, and looked out over the lake. There was a school trunk beside each bed, and a wardrobe at the foot of it. 

 

Four desks were across the room from the beds along a windowless, flat wall which had one door in the middle of it. Harry moved forward a few steps into the room, eyes darting around the room to memorize every detail of his new House.

 

"You may pick your bed," said Robert, benevolently, and the boys scattered to find their trunks. Harry's was at one of the middle beds, Terry Boot on one side, Michael Corner on the other, and Anthony Goldstein on the far side of Michael.

 

"Anyone care to swap, or are you fine where you are?" Robert inquired. 

 

"I'm fine here." Anthony said agreeably, echoed by the three other First Years.

 

"Excellent," Robert shifted on his feet a little, as though nervous, but his face was stoic. "Your class schedule is on your bedside table; the extra classes are listed on the second sheet. You'll need to fill them out and turn them into Professor Flitwick by the first Charms class, and the payment for them must be authorized by the first class. It will appear on your schedule once the payment has been made."

 

Harry frowned, reaching for the sheets of parchment. Extra classes? He raised his hand.

 

"Mister Potter?" Robert raised an eyebrow.

 

"I didn't know about the extra classes..." he trailed off, unsure of how to phrase his query into words.

 

"They aren't required, some are specific to Ravenclaw, and they're available. Isn’t it rather self explanatory?" he said impatiently. Harry flushed, but carried on.

 

"Can we get OWLs in them, or do people take them just for the knowledge?" 

 

"Next to each class listing there will be a notation that indicates whether or not you can get an OWL and NEWT or not. Some classes do, others you can only test via the International Magical Schools Association - IMSA for short - and some are for personal edification and aren’t accredited."

 

Harry wanted to ask what IMSA was, and why some classes were accredited - what a word that was. What did it mean? - through them, but decided he'd ask his mentor - whoever that was. Serendipitously, Robert read off the list of mentors for each First Year next - Harry's was Takashi Noda - then waved his wand, creating a floating, glowing countdown of half an hour before the lights would automatically go out and they were expected to go to sleep.

 

"I'll set an alarm spell to wake you for tomorrow," Robert said, "but ask your mentor to teach you one tomorrow." Robert waved his wand again and another set of letters appeared, showing the time, and a little bell by a tiny "6:30am" below the larger letters. "Breakfast starts at seven and goes to half-nine, but you're all expected to be to breakfast early." 

 

Robert ignored Terry's moan at the information, asked if anyone had questions, received a negative, and departed after delivering dire, but vague threats as to what would occur if they didn’t unpack their belongings neatly before bed. 

 

Harry opened his trunk, fetched out a muggle notebook and pen, and started to write down a list of questions. Around him, the other boys began unpacking their trunks.

 

"What are you writing with?" Michael asked. Harry raised the notebook and biro for his inspection.

 

"Muggle things. This is a notebook; it's made out of paper and held together to be easy to write on, and I'm writing with a pen. It holds its ink inside it." Harry explained.

 

"Like a self-inking quill?" Michael asked. 

 

"Sort of." Harry said, unsure if it was like a self-inking quill or not, but assuming it was similar enough for a comparison. "Pens don't smear or blot as easily as quills do." 

 

"Nifty." Michael said, somewhat doubtfully, and handed it back to Harry.

 

"It is." Harry agreed, and headed to unpack his own trunk.

 

The four boys chattered easily as they unpacked , Harry joining in now and then, but wishing for bed.

 

He felt overwhelmed and had a niggling sense of something being wrong. He didn't dislike Terry, Anthony, and Michael, but he felt as though he'd be more comfortable being with the girls...or was it,  _ being _ a girl, he wondered, feeling odder the more he contemplated it. 

 

Suddenly feeling shy, Harry grabbed his pajamas and toiletries, and headed for the other door in the room, which led to a windowless bathroom and bathing room, filled with two sinks on one end, two shower stalls to one side, and two toilet stalls on the other. He slipped into a shower stall, changed his clothes and left his shampoo and soap, and went to brush his teeth at the sink. 

 

He'd finished and slipped into bed by the time the other three boys finished with a round of horseplay and filed into the bathroom, and so for a few minutes he was alone in the high-ceilinged room. Sound seemed to be muffled between the bathroom and dormitory; all he could hear was the whistling of wind 'round the tower, and his own breaths which were starting to hitch a little.

 

Harry rolled over and pressed his face into his cool pillow.

 

He was magical, at Hogwarts, with clothes and books and a mentor, and maybe even friends other than Neville, so why did he feel so...wrong? It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be at Hogwarts, because he was very pleased about that. His unease was difficult to understand, even in his own mind, but he rather strongly felt that it bothered him to be lumped in with the boys.

 

He pretended, for a moment, that his friends from home - Jana and Eloise - were sitting on the edge of his bed, laughing and talking with him. His eyes slipped closed and he fell asleep into a dream that he, Jana, and Eloise were all in matching dresses, running down the street to the corner store for ice cream. 

  
  



End file.
